Lesser Men
by Jedi Buttercup
Summary: Jonathan finds a direction. Wesley feels like a target. Britishness abounds. FINISHED! NOTE: REVISED VERSION AVAILABLE AT MY SITE
1. Jonathan

Title: Lesser Men  
  
Author: Jedi Buttercup  
  
Disclaimer: They're not mine. In fact, take them back, Joss, please? They're taking over my life!  
  
Spoilers: Everything up to "Normal Again" (6:17) in B:tVS, possible crossover would include everything up to "Sleep Tight" (3:16) in A:tS.  
  
Feedback is highly appreciated.  
  
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Chapter One  
  
They'd left him alone with the monitors again. Jonathan was beginning to wonder ... no. If he was going to be honest with himself, he'd have to admit that he'd been wondering for a very long time now what Warren was really up to.  
  
It had been so much fun at the beginning. He'd been recognized again, important, playing on the same level as the Slayer and getting away with it. Not only that, he and his fellow super-villains had much better stuff than she did! A cool lair, a freeze gun, minions, money, chicks ...  
  
Jonathan swallowed. Well, the chick thing hadn't gone so well. Hadn't they said, way back at the beginning, ix-nay on the urder-may? And look where that had gotten them. Katrina was dead. Katrina! Warren's ex! How had that happened? Where had their plans gone wrong?  
  
Andrew didn't even seem to care anymore. He was like Warren, Part II. Fitting, maybe, since until he'd hooked up with Jonathan and Warren, he'd been just "Tucker's little brother". Sure, the "Run, Juliet" thing was funny and all, but when people thought about trained demons attacking the school, Tucker's devil dogs were what they remembered first. Not Andrew's flying monkeys. I mean, seriously. Prom vs. school play? No contest.  
  
Jonathan sighed, and tried to shake off the cloud of depressing thoughts. The same ideas had been running in circles through his mind for days now, weeks even, and he was no closer to a solution. All he did was lose sleep, and Warren was getting more and more impatient with him. What was he going to do? He couldn't leave. Sure, he had magic, but nothing on a grand scale. With Warren's gadgets, and Andrew's summoning powers, they could hunt him down in no time.  
  
He should have known. He should have realized a long time ago that this was going to turn out just like the other time he tried to be Jonathan the Great. Buffy had said something wise then, about him treating people like socks ... wait, that couldn't be right. Socks? Anyway. He had been practically king of Sunnydale, but there had been this dark side to all that power, that he hadn't known about at the beginning. And how had that turned out? The Slayer had bailed him out of it and returned him to obscurity.  
  
It didn't look like that was going to happen this time. On the monitors, Jonathan could see Buffy huddled under a stairway, while her friends were getting pounded on. She looked almost catatonic. Were more people going to die? More people's lives on their heads? And not just Buffy and her friends. Didn't Warren realize? Without Buffy and the others around and active, the evil population would skyrocket in Sunnydale.  
  
Warren might think they were big enough supervillains to hold off competition, but Jonathan wasn't so sure. What could they have done against the Mayor, for example? Or Adam? Sooner or later they were going to have to move off the Hellmouth, and then what? Some of Warren's gadgets depended on the strange effects the Hellmouth had on the laws of physics, and it would be a lot harder for Andrew, too, since the demons would have to travel further for less power. Not to mention the difficulty Jonathan would have getting ingredients for spells, unless they went to another hotspot like L.A., and they'd just run into more problems there. They'd be small fish in a very big pond.  
  
Buffy was saying something on the monitors. Jonathan focused on the screen as her lost look suddenly cleared into her resolve face, and she leaped into the fray. He found himself holding his breath, watching intently as if she were fighting his problems instead of Andrew's unpronounceable demon.  
  
It died. More than that, it died emphatically, with slime dripping off of Buffy's hand. She hadn't been that strong since they'd started surveilling her. Where had that come from? How had she shaken the poison off?  
  
"Does it matter?" Jonathan said aloud, touching an index finger to the screen where the body was displayed. "She got out of it. How does she do that? She always gets out of it. I am so on the wrong side."  
  
He turned then, looking around at the trappings of their lair. Where were the beanbag chairs, the imaginary schematics, the whiteboard with fun goals like "Conjure Fake I.D.s" and "Miniaturize Fort Knox"? They had suddenly gone all Initiative down here. He still had a few fuzzy memories rattling around from his day as Mr. Levinson, Tactical Advisor, and the comparison was sobering. The Initiative had seemed like such a good thing, but then there was Adam.  
  
"Enough." He was no Buffy, but surely if she could snap out of her hallucinations, he could conquer the apathy and cowardice that were keeping him here.  
  
Wait! That was it! He was no Buffy ... but he didn't have to be Jonathan, either ...  
  
A few minutes later, Warren's monitors fuzzed out for a few moments, as the front door opened and then banged shut. Jonathan exited the house, muttering Latin under his breath, dressed in old sweats and carrying a duffel bag. He turned to look at the front door again, smiled grimly, then turned right and started down the sidewalk ...  
  
TBC 


	2. Wesley

A/N: The more I thought about it, the more I liked this match-up. So I had to make a detour. Sorry! Don't worry, I'll get back to Jonathan next chapter.  
  
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Chapter Two  
  
They'd left him alone again, with only the beeps and buzzes of the machines to keep him company. Wesley had heard them leave as the first twinges of lucidity began to wash through his mind. His first instinct had been to call out, to summon back whoever was leaving, but the sudden effort of opening his mouth had tugged sharply at the stitches in his neck. Consciousness subsided once more into a fog of pain and nightmare, and he spent another vague stretch of time in fitful sleep.  
  
Wesley woke again, disoriented, somewhere in the depths of night. Something had startled him awake, but he had no idea what it could have been. The combination of pain and medication had slowed his thoughts to the consistency of treacle. He didn't even know where he was ... or did he? Cautiously, Wes sniffed at the air.  
  
Hospital. He was in hospital. Why? ...   
  
A sudden cry split the air, the thin, despairing wail of a sick infant. Wes was abruptly aware that this was the sound that had awakened him.  
  
"Connor?" His voice was barely intelligible, roughened by the pain and hours, maybe days' worth of disuse. "Connor? ..."  
  
But no. Connor had been taken from him, hadn't he? Vague memories surfaced of those last few hours. The panic Wes had felt as he looked up from his lullaby to see Lorne's knowing face. Nausea, as the anagogic demon crumpled under his blow. Guilt, as he lied his way out of his friends' company. Determination, as he levelled his gun at Justine. Horror, as Justine pulled the knife. Disbelief and despair, as the rented SUV drove away with Connor inside, while Wesley's lifeblood oozed between his fingers onto the grass.  
  
Ah. That was why. Someone had found him there, dying by the pint, and conveyed him to the hospital. Someone with large hands? Warm. Not Angel, certainly. He had no doubt that if Angel had found him, if Angel had been coming after him, he would be dead now. Or possibly undead. Angel might easily have turned him, if only to have the pleasure of watching his son's kidnapper die twice over.  
  
"He's gone, Wes." A soft voice interrupted his thoughts.  
  
Wesley flinched. He was becoming accustomed to the pain, but the movement still made his vision swim a bit. When it cleared again, the room still looked empty. Not that he could see very much from flat on his back. "Who?" he managed to ask.  
  
"Connor. He's gone." The voice was flat, and so quiet it was hard to decipher its owner, but the choked sob that followed was entirely feminine.  
  
"Fred? I can't ..."  
  
Fred had apparently been standing in the corridor. She walked slowly into his range of vision, stopping an armslength from the left side of his bed. She looked worse than he'd ever seen her. The hollows under her eyes and the tearstains on her cheeks were bad enough, but it was the emptiness of her expression that hurt the most. She looked utterly defeated, something he'd never seen in her before.  
  
"Wes, how could you? He's in a Hell dimension now. Why did you take him?"   
  
Wesley closed his eyes, drawing in his features in a pained expression that had nothing to do with his wound. "Hell? Holtz said ..."  
  
"Holtz did it! He jumped right into the portal with Connor. Lorne told us you'd been to see him! What were you thinking?" Her voice had begun to shake.  
  
It was too late, really, for an explanation, but he had to try. "The father ..."  
  
"The father? Oh, God, Wes, can't you even say his name? Angel's in shock. He's so devastated, all he says is 'Connor', in between cursing you and Holtz. We haven't told him you're here."   
  
The tears were flowing again. Fred wiped them out of her eyes, then set her jaw. "And we aren't going to. Because you're not coming back."  
  
"Fred ... a prophecy!" Wes tried to catch her gaze, finding it even harder to speak as his throat tightened with emotion. He had to get the message across. Not to be forgiven, for he knew he didn't deserve that, but for understanding, at least. "Father would kill son."  
  
"A prophecy?" She looked startled for a moment, then made a choked, watery impression of a laugh. "Of course. This is you we're talking about."  
  
"Taking him to Giles," Wesley said, sadly. "Not Holtz. Said if I took Connor ... not attack."  
  
"So you're saying Angel was prophesied to kill his son, and Holtz knew this? That you were trying to help Connor, and Holtz played you?"  
  
She looked a little less betrayed, but given the disbelief in her tone, that was small comfort to Wes. Tentatively, he moved his left arm. Upon finding it still present and not directly attached to the source of his pain, he reached out towards Fred, lightly touching one of her hands.  
  
"Fred ... I never ..."  
  
She looked away and pulled back a step. "Oh, Wes." She sighed heavily. "It's just, I just, Angel, and Connor's gone, and Gunn is so upset ..."  
  
"Gunn?" Wesley's brow furrowed. He hadn't had room in his thoughts for anyone but Connor. Had his friend been hurt?  
  
"When we found you, he was so shocked. He kept saying something about you being gutshot, which must have happened before I met you, because I never ... but he couldn't get you to the hospital fast enough. And then the doctors had you, and he started muttering about secrets, and a lecture you gave him ..." Her voice faltered to a stop.  
  
"Bloody hell." Of course Charles would feel betrayed. Wes had forgotten about that. He'd forgotten about most things during the last few weeks, in his efforts to prevent his little family from self-destructing.   
  
Ah well. If Angel had killed Connor, everything would have collapsed; in Wesley's absence, they could survive. Angel would plan Connor's rescue, and the others would fall in behind. Still, it stung, knowing that not one person would miss him when he was gone. Not even Cordy, when she returned, for she would automatically align with Angel. Wes wasn't blind. He knew what was behind her Angel-ization of the Groosalug.  
  
He tried one more time. "Fred, I'm so, so sorry. We'll ... you'll get him back."  
  
She looked up again, anguish in her expression. "And if he's dead?" And then she was gone, flying out of the room as quietly as she'd come in.  
  
No, Wesley wasn't going back. He had burnt all his bridges, and there was nothing to do but pick up the shattered pieces of his life and move onward. He was getting fairly good at that.   
  
When? Wesley contemplated the thought. If he stayed, Angel might find him, after all. Cordy might get back, and read him the riot act. Gunn might come, and stand where Fred had, with condemnation in his eyes ...  
  
Now. Why not? He hadn't been through Watcher training for nothing. With a little concentration, a simple spell, and a timely raid on the pharmacy, Wesley might even make it out of the hospital sometime tonight.  
  
Yes. Now.  
  
TBC 


	3. Farewell, Sunnydale

Chapter Three  
  
Jonathan had one more stop to make on his way out of town. He needed a quiet place to perform the disguising spell again, and the ruins of the old Sunnydale High School seemed as good a spot as any.  
  
Every time he passed by this place, he always wondered why the city didn't raze the rubble and use the land for something else. It was a waste, and more than that, it was a hazard to the community. Anyone could just wander into the crumbling structure and get hurt.   
  
Or maybe not. Sunnydale residents usually made a point of ignoring things that weren't normal, and the old high school certainly fit the bill. Even if you didn't know the Hellmouth was there, which most people didn't, there were little pieces of Demon-Mayor all over the place ...  
  
"Eww." Jonathan lifted his right shoe, wrinkling his nose at something that had crunched under his step. "Speaking of."  
  
He shook his head and moved onward, finding a relatively open space. He set his duffel bag down, then paused to look around for a moment. If this was going to be the last hour he ever spent in Sunnydale, this was a pretty appropriate place to be.  
  
There, where the stairs had been, he'd once been called a stallion. It was a joke, obviously; Harmony had been making fun of Cordelia at the time. That had been cool. And not, of course; but the dissing-Jonathan part was pretty normal. The dissing-Cordelia part had been unusual enough to enjoy.  
  
Not that he hated Cordelia, really; they were just at opposite ends of the popularity scale. She had given him six bucks once, even if it was just to get his vote, and there was that time she'd let him order coffee for her. Or something. It had had this name a mile long, and he hadn't even gotten it right.  
  
He'd always messed things up, when he was here. Except for Latin, anyway, and chess, and stuff like that. Stupid athsma. Stupid height problem. He'd always be short. What had Warren said? "Short and insane." Pretty accurate, really. Why else had he peed in the pool?  
  
Jonathan laughed bitterly. He'd come a long ways since then. And yet, not very far at all. Four years, was it? Something like that. And he was still at the bottom of the barrel. If he'd only managed to get in with the Slayer early, like Willow and Xander ...  
  
Nah. No use kicking himself over that, at least. How could he have known? He'd barely wondered about the group that always camped in the library, until the evidence had started to pile up, and then it was too late. They were geeks, too, but they were geeks with a mission, and he was just ... he was just Jonathan.  
  
The magic had been a cool thing. It had surprised him, that he could do it, and it actually worked. Except for that one spell, but the other kid hadn't mentioned the monster! Anyway. It was the first talent anyone had ever sought him out for. Now, it would be the talent he used to make sure they didn't seek him out again.  
  
Jonathan shook off the cloud of thought, and bent to unzip the duffel bag. Under the magic supplies and his favorite action figures, there was a folded charcoal-colored sweater, several sizes too big for him, and a pair of black slacks. New shoes, too, and new socks, even new underwear -- he'd practiced this particular disguise before, and knew what sizes he would need.  
  
This had been another of Warren's sneaky little plans, actually. He'd told Jonathan to work up "a special disguise", an ace in the hole, for when they might need to distract the Slayer without alarming her. It had never panned out. There had been no opportunity, first of all, and then they had gone beyond such small-time games.  
  
Not that Jonathan minded. It gave him the perfect new identity. He'd never told Warren who he'd picked to imitate, for one thing. Also, the only people he knew of in the country that might recognize his new face were here in Sunnydale, or else in some godforsaken secret hidey hole.   
  
Even if there were someone in the city who'd know, Jonathan would probably never meet them! If he found a magic shop right away, he could keep the disguise as long as it took for Warren to give up, or until Buffy pounded Warren into the ground. Jonathan wasn't picky. He'd take either one.  
  
He undressed swiftly, wrapping his sweats around a gallon Ziploc he'd stuffed with money, and pulled on the other outfit. He kept one hand wrapped up in the waistband of the slacks, trying to keep them up until he could finish the spell, then dug into the magic supplies with the other.  
  
Several minutes later, the Hellmouth had the rubble to itself once more; in the distance, a cab headed towards the City of Angels ...  
  
TBC 


	4. Exit, Stage Left

Chapter Four  
  
Wesley stopped one more time on the way out of the hospital. He knew he didn't have much time before the masking spell would begin to wear off, and he'd have to resort to the painkillers. Nevertheless, he found his footsteps heading in the direction of the nursery.  
  
Most of the infants were sleeping. Wesley flattened his free hand against the glass, leaning against it ever so slightly, and scanned the rows of bassinets with his eyes. No Connor, of course. He wasn't addled enough to expect that. But the child that had woken him up ...?  
  
There. At the far end of the room, a nurse was pacing the floor, with a blue-wrapped bundle snugged in her arms. Wesley smiled sadly at the pair. He hoped that Connor had someone to comfort him so, but he knew that was unlikely. Fred had said Hell, and she was unlikely to exaggerate on so important a subject.  
  
If Connor weren't already dead, he could be suffering greatly; and Wesley rather thought he wasn't dead. Wes was a pessimist, after all, especially on the subject of fathers and sons. If Angel hadn't killed Connor yet, then the true crisis must be yet to come. That meant, assuming Holtz had also survived the jump, that they could be anywhere now, or any when. Time passed differently in other dimensions, and whatever power had taken Holtz there could as easily send them to another place altogether. He needed to ...  
  
No. Wesley shook his head. Tonight was for getting out of hospital, and finding a place to lie down and heal in peace. There was nothing he could do in his present condition. Later, if there was a later, he could research for clues to Connor's present location, and find some way of letting Angel know. Or one of the others. Someone who would at least read a letter all the way through before doing anything rash.  
  
Wesley blinked, and found the nurse staring at him with an alarmed expression. He pulled back with another half-smile, then turned and walked swiftly down the hall. The last thing he needed was to have security find him before he exited the building. He rather doubted they would look favorably on a bandaged man in bloodied clothing with a stolen doctor's bag in his hand.  
  
Several minutes later, Wes traced a careful path through the shadows, thankful for the late hour. Very few people were about, and those that were, knew better than to look closely at a passing stranger.   
  
One minute in a car, at average speeds; perhaps a fifteen-minute walk? The spell would probably last that long. The question was, whether he'd have time to retrieve more supplies from his apartment and take the motorcycle to a cheap hotel.  
  
Perhaps a cab would be more wise...? Or perhaps not. He needed his own source of transportation, and he wasn't going to be back here anytime soon. Abbreviated packing, then. Books, a few changes of clothes, a weapon or two; his leathers, for the ride. That would have to suffice.   
  
Cordelia had a key. The others could have anything he left behind, or burn it, as they pleased.  
  
TBC 


	5. Passing in the Night

Chapter Five  
  
Maybe this disguise thing hadn't been such a good idea. Sure, it made him anonymous. It added twelve inches to his height, several more to his shoulders, and made him look really buff. But inside it all, he still only had the strength of Jonathan. Which meant he looked like an idiot right now, trying to open this stupid door.  
  
"Oh, it sticks a little sometimes," Jonathan muttered under his breath, "but I'm sure you'll have no trouble with it." He should have known the minute those words left the manager's mouth that he was gonna be in trouble. "Come on ..."  
  
He heard a snicker from across the hall, and felt his neck start to turn red with embarrassment. "This is just great. Forget my looks, they'll track me by my stupidity." He went into full Jonathan-pout, an expression rather foreign to his current face, then kicked at the door in frustration.  
  
"Owwww!" If he'd looked stupid before, he must look really lame now, hopping around on one foot and clutching at the other with oversized hands.  
  
"Ah, perhaps it might help if you tried the key ...?"  
  
Jonathan paused mid-hop and blinked at the speaker. Tall, British-sounding, and ow, was that a bloody bandage around his neck? A vampire victim, maybe? He froze, watching for several seconds until he was sure he saw the other man take a breath.  
  
"Or you could just stand there like that all night. Up to you, I suppose."  
  
Jonathan watched the British guy stick a key into a knob across the hall, turn it, and walk in. It wasn't until the door shut behind the man that he realized he knew him from somewhere.  
  
"British, but not Mr. Giles," he said, frowning, and let go of his foot. "British, but not Spike. British, but ... Oh!" A memory surfaced of a clean-shaven teacher-type in a suit, a dapper twin to the bedraggled man he'd just seen. The guy had been around the school for awhile, just before Graduation, and Jonathan thought he remembered seeing him carried away in an ambulance after the school blew up.  
  
It was that other Watcher, the one who hadn't stayed very long. What was he doing here? Jonathan was glad he'd only taken the room for one night; the man might not recognize him, but he'd certainly recongize the name Jonathan had used to sign for the room. At least, if he ever still talked to Mr. Giles.  
  
Suddenly, the Watcher's words registered. Key? But he'd already ...  
  
"D'oh." Jonathan pulled the key from his pocket, inserted it in the keyhole, and turned it. Then he gave the door a half-hearted shove, expecting it to mock him as stubbornly as ever.  
  
The door swung open easily. Of course.  
  
With a groan, Jonathan stepped into the room and let the door slam shut. He felt like that guy in "Island City," something-22. Greg? The one with the green code, who couldn't do anything right, no matter how many brains he had. It really was too bad they hadn't made that show into a series.  
  
The room was pretty standard, for a cheap hotel. Single bed, yellow walls, saggy ceiling with an amoeba-shaped waterstain. No air conditioning. No little fridge to put beer in, if he'd had any. Not exactly a place that screamed "ex-Crime-Lord", but who needed luxury, anyway?  
  
Jonathan tossed his duffel into a corner, then walked over to the bed. Shower first, or just crash? Despite the smell, that mattress was looking awfully soft ...  
  
With a weary groan, Jonathan flopped on the bed. So what if he woke up Jonathan-sized again, with grime in his hair and clothes that didn't fit? He'd have plenty of time to take care of that in the morning. What else did he have to do?  
  
TBC 


	6. A Welcome Voice

Chapter Six  
  
Wesley snorted softly as he walked into his hotel room. On another night, the spectacle he'd just witnessed might have been rather amusing. A grown man, as tall as Wesley and twice as muscular, in an apparent battle to the death with a door? Well, it was more believable than many other things he'd had the pleasure to witness.  
  
Wesley set his suitcases on the floor by the door. It was a good thing he'd had the extra set, and that he hadn't packed any of his books for the trip to England. If he had, they'd be in the SUV now, wherever Justine had left it. Fortunately, he'd been assuming that Rupert would have anything he would, and more, and that together they might unearth a way to save both Angel and his child.  
  
Rupert! The person on duty at the hotel desk had told him that today was Thursday, or would be, as soon as the sun rose. Giles had been expecting to pick him up at the airport Wednesday night! Wesley hurriedly calculated the hour in his mind, then crossed the room to the telephone.  
  
Bending over made his head swim, and Wesley knew the spell he'd used to block the pain and keep himself mobile was beginning to deteriorate. Hurriedly, he sat on the bed, pulling the 'phone into his lap so that he might dial without having to stretch any muscles.  
  
While Wesley waited for the call to connect, he took in the room around him. The decor was pure Urban American Decay, all must and stain, in faded 1970's coloring. It was quite cheerless, actually. Not where one might expect to find an Englishman of upper-class heritage, but who needed luxury, really?  
  
"Giles residence." The older man's tone was brusque, worried. "That had damned well better be you, Wesley."  
  
"Unfortunately," Wesley agreed. He rubbed his forehead with the hand that wasn't gripping the receiver, trying to focus his thoughts.  
  
"Well? You obviously aren't here. What's happened?"  
  
"Everything." Wesley sighed. What to tell first? Nearly getting caught? Letting his guard down and getting his throat slit? Losing Connor to a madman who had jumped with him through a portal to Hell? ...  
  
There was silence on the other end for a moment, then, "Wesley. I'd appreciate a little more detail, if you can manage it."  
  
"Well," Wes answered. "Do you want the short version? I failed."  
  
"Try the long version. It might make a bit more sense." How *did* Giles manage to convey both patience and irritation with the same sentence?   
  
Wesley sighed again, bitterly. "I was about to drive to the airport when one of Holtz' minions showed up. She claimed she had seen the light, that she was leaving Holtz' employ, and I believed her. No wonder people think of me a failure; I'm much too gullible. She nearly took my head off with her knife, then took Connor away."  
  
"Wesley! Are you all right?" The distant voice shifted audibly from irritation to concern.  
  
"I'm alive, at any rate." Wesley swallowed, trying to blink the haze from his vision, then cleared his throat and continued. "According to Fred, Holtz took Connor and jumped through a portal to some Hell-dimension or other."  
  
Another pause. Then, "You should rest. Give me your address, and I'll be there tomorrow. We can continue this discussion then."  
  
"Perhaps I'd better solve this one myself, Rupert. I have no doubt that Angel will be hunting me, and I have no wish to involve you further in a mess of my own making."  
  
"Oh, do shut up, Wesley. Don't be dramatic. I'll be there tomorrow afternoon -- that'll be Friday morning by your clock. What's the name of your hotel?"  
  
Was it childish of him, Wesley wondered, to feel a sense of relief at Giles' words?  
  
TBC 


	7. Mistakes Compound

Chapter Seven  
  
Jonathan spent most of Thursday morning sleeping, and most of Thursday afternoon, too. Sleep deprivation and nervousness, not to mention magic, had taken a heavy toll on his reserves over the past weeks. In a perfect world, he would have gone on sleeping for another several hours, but if it were a perfect world, then what would he be doing here anyway?  
  
The shrill ringing sound attacked his eardrums again, and Jonathan flinched. With a groan, he rolled over and flailed at the phone. After a few wild swings, he reached the receiver, and tried blindly to pick it up. For some reason, he was having a problem with his grip ...?  
  
"Unh?" Jonathan cracked an eyelid open, and squinted at the offending hand. It was dark gray, and much too long. That couldn't be right. He blinked again, clearing the last sleep-scum away, and realized that there were several inches of sweater hanging past his fingers.  
  
Oh. He'd fallen asleep in his disguise, and reverted to his original Jonathan-shape in his sleep. Normal. But now his clothes were all wrinkled, and he didn't have another set that were the right size for the man he was imitating. "Guess I'm going shopping today," he muttered.  
  
The phone rang again, calling attention to itself. Abruptly, Jonathan realized that he hadn't given anyone this number. In fact, if he was lucky, no one even knew he was in L.A. Was it a wrong number? Or had someone found him already? Had Andrew finally managed to summon a demon he could control, that could track by scent?  
  
The phone rang a fourth time, and curiosity got the better of him. He shook the loose sleeve up above his wrist, then grabbed the receiver. "Um?" A nice short sound, hard to get any ID out of. He'd see what the other end had to say.  
  
A British voice answered. "Wesley? I've booked a flight. I should be at your hotel by ten o'clock tomorrow morning."  
  
Jonathan blinked. Not a stranger. Not a call for him, either. Weird. And it sounded like ... "Mr. Giles?"  
  
Silence, while Jonathan slapped his forehead with his free hand. He hadn't meant to say that out loud! Then the voice was back, a lot more serious and a hell of a lot more menacing.  
  
"Where's Wesley?"  
  
Stupid, stupid, stupid ... "Uhh, wrong room?" Jonathan slammed the phone down, and stared at it, breaking into a cold sweat. The call must have been for that other Watcher, the one across the hall, in room 12. But the caller had reached room 21 instead. Of all the luck! And why couldn't he have kept his mouth shut? Now Mr. Giles was going to know that someone else who knew him was staying in the same hotel as his friend. Someone maybe dangerous. And if he recognized Jonathan's voice, and if he was still in contact with the Slayer?  
  
Jonathan jumped off the bed, and shook off the ill-fitting clothes. He needed a shower, first of all. No need to panic yet. He had several hours, right? First, get clean. Second, put the disguise back on. Third, go shopping. He'd need fresh clothes, and more magic supplies. He didn't know any of the shops in town, but he knew roughly what area to start searching in.  
  
Fourth, once he had everything else set up ... then, he would get the hell out of Dodge.  
  
It wasn't until he was toweling off that Jonathan realized the Englishman he should be fearing wasn't the one crossing the ocean, but the one in the room across the hall. Of course Mr. Giles would call back. Of course he'd tell this Wesley about the strange person who'd recognized his voice. Damn it! The younger Watcher could be knocking on his door at any minute!  
  
Jonathan hurried through the ritual, trying to keep his hands from shaking. He couldn't afford to get any of the gestures wrong, or any of the Latin. Come on, come on! By the time it finished, he was ready to crawl out of his skin from nerves. Clothes, clothes ...  
  
He had barely got the sweater back over his head when the knock came at the door. Jonathan been afraid it would happen, but there's a difference from fearing something would come, and being ready for it. He flinched, then stared at the door as though it really were the evil-minded thing he'd cursed it for yesterday.  
  
The knock came again, and through the door, a muffled voice. "Open up," it said, in those cultured tones he was beginning to hate. "I am perfectly aware that you are still in there, whoever you are."  
  
"Shit." With a sinking heart, Jonathan stepped towards the door.  
  
TBC 


	8. Too Many Coincidences

Chapter Eight  
  
Wesley's state of mind upon awakening Thursday afternoon was a lot like it had been in the wee hours Thursday morning. There was the disorientation of waking someplace unknown, mixed with a heavy dose of pain and the distinct sense that there had been an important noise calling for his attention.  
  
After a few seconds, the telephone rang again. Wesley fumbled at it, very glad that he'd left it on the bed when he fell asleep the night before. "Ah ... Hello?"  
  
"Wesley, are you all right?" It was Giles.  
  
"As all right as I was when I dozed off, which isn't very," Wes answered, matter-of-factly. "Is something wrong?"  
  
"Well, I tried to ring your room a few minutes ago, and apparently reached room 21 instead of room 12. The man that answered recognized my voice."  
  
"Do you know who it was?" Wes asked. His imagination prompted him with images of Angel hunting him down, or perhaps Gunn putting his knowledge of the town's low-rent hotels to use.   
  
Oh, Wes knew he was being a bit paranoid. They would have confronted him directly instead of taking a room, and he was probably over-estimating their hostility towards him. Perhaps they were giving him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps they were deep in researching Connor's location themselves. All the same ...  
  
"No," Giles answered, interrupting his train of thought. "No, not for certain. I'm positive that I've heard the voice before, but I'm having difficulty recalling the name."  
  
Wes sighed. "Well, what did he say?"  
  
"Not much," Giles answered. His voice was more puzzled than worried, now. "In fact, he seemed somewhat afraid of me. Nevertheless, I am concerned that this man has shown up just now, in the same hotel. Perhaps you should relocate."  
  
Wes frowned. "I had hoped to spend the next day recuperating," he said. "But I suppose you're right. How will you know where I am?"  
  
"Turn your mobile on," Giles said. "I'll ring you when we land tomorrow morning."  
  
The conversation wound to a close, and Wesley put the 'phone back on the rickety bedside table where it belonged. He stared at the ceiling for several minutes more, working up his courage, then slowly sat up and swung his feet over the edge of the mattress.  
  
Well. He wouldn't be running any marathons today, but he could perhaps make it to another hotel. He was weak, tired, and his vision blurred with pain every time the stitches pulled, but he had painkillers in his suitcase, and spare bandaging. Surely, it was safe enough here to take a shower before he left? Giles hadn't sounded particularly alarmed.  
  
By the time he turned the water off and reached for a towel, Wes was feeling a lot more human. He even worked up enough energy to retrieve a razor from his luggage and do something about the stubble shading his cheeks and chin. Then he dressed, taking his time, and packed everything back up.  
  
When all was done, Wes picked up his suitcases, took one last glance around, and then exited the room. He paused for a moment to lock the door and pocket the key, then looked around, scanning the other doors for the number 21.  
  
When he located it, he blinked, surprised. It was the door he'd seen the young man having trouble with, when he'd arrived. He hadn't felt the slightest twinge of recognition at the time. But the man at the door now?  
  
"Open up," said the older British man standing there, clearly addressing the occupant of the room. "I am perfectly aware that you are still in there, whoever you are."  
  
"Ethan Rayne," Wesley whispered to himself. "What is *he* doing here?"  
  
TBC 


	9. Recognition

A/N: I couldn't find reference to Jonathan's birthday or Ethan's height; if I'm contradicting canon on this, I offer my abject apologies!  
  
----------------------------  
  
Chapter Nine  
  
Jonathan stepped slowly towards the door. On the one hand, he was happy that he'd managed to finish dressing before disaster happened. On the other hand, well, disaster! What was he going to say to the guy? How was he going to explain this?  
  
He paused with one hand on the doorknob, thinking things over again. No, no use hiding; surely a Watcher had magical ways of knowing if the room was empty, and there weren't any other exits except for the windows. Maybe he could fake a name and make up some bogus story, but would he be believed?  
  
Only one way to tell. Jonathan took a deep breath, and opened the door.  
  
The man on his doorstep wasn't at all what he expected. The stranger wasn't the Watcher named Wesley, or anyone else he knew that had a British accent. So, where had this one come from? Jonathan didn't recognize him at all. He was maybe Giles' age, not all that physically impressive. He was lean and wiry, not overly tall, with brown hair that was starting to recede and brown eyes that were currently widening in apparent surprise. Jonathan had a creeping feeling, though, that the man had strength far beyond what could be seen.  
  
"Riley Finn?" the man exclaimed, then started to laugh. "This is totally unexpected! And possibly quite delightful. I've been looking forward to the opportunity for payback."  
  
Jonathan blinked, and instinctively retreated a few steps into the room. He'd been recognized? And not in a good way, apparently. There was something about that smile, something in the tone of the laughter that made his skin crawl.  
  
He cleared his throat and tried to ward off trouble. "Look, I don't know what you're here about, but ..."  
  
The Englishman laughed again, cutting him off. "Don't try to play innocent with me, you Initiative bastard. I spent nearly two years in a cell in Nevada because of you. Now, tell me where Jonathan is, and I'll cut the torture in half."  
  
Jonathan stumbled backwards again, and collided with the edge of the bed. He sat down hard, trying desperately to think of a way out, and could find none. Maybe this was the universe's idea of justice. Fess up, and be punished for his own crimes. Fake it out, and be punished for someone else's.  
  
"Uh, what do you want Jonathan for?" Jonathan crossed his fingers mentally. There was still a fraction of a chance that the guy didn't work for either Warren or Mr. Giles.  
  
"Does it matter?" the man asked him. "Let's just say I have a birthday present for him. And here you are, occupying the very room I tracked him to. I was mildly confused when the manager gave me your description instead of his, but now it all makes sense. One more punishment for old Ethan. Well, you're not going to get the better of me this time."  
  
By the time Ethan had finished his little speech, his face had twisted into a snarl, and his tone of voice had gone from mocking to bitter. It was all very confusing to Jonathan. So this guy might be on Jonathan's side? But why? What reason could there be for someone to punish a complete stranger by kidnapping Jonathan?  
  
"Look, this isn't making much sense to me," Jonathan said, gathering his courage together. "And I'm not really Riley Finn, so I'd appreciate it if you back off. I'm just borrowing his face for awhile."  
  
"Borrowing his ...?" Ethan stopped short. His eyes narrowed, and he looked Jonathan over a little more carefully this time. "But that would mean ..." Then suddenly, his expression cleared, and he started laughing again.  
  
Jonathan raised his eyebrows. There was no menace in the laughter, this time, that he could hear. What was going on?  
  
Finally, Ethan stopped for a breath. "Ohhh, I should have been watching for this. Blood will tell, after all, and you *have* been learning magic."  
  
"What?" Jonathan gaped at him. "What do you mean?"  
  
Ethan smiled at him. "I think I saw a bar across the street. I have a lot to explain, and I don't really want to do it in some filthy hotel room."  
  
"But I ..." Jonathan tried to protest.  
  
"Oh, come on. You'll be 21 tomorrow, Jonathan, that's close enough." Ethan turned and walked out into the hallway again, throwing a mischeivous look over his shoulder at Jonathan. "Or don't you want to know what this is all about?"  
  
What the hell, Jonathan thought. He was doomed regardless. And what else did he have to do?  
  
TBC 


	10. Sod's Law

Chapter Ten  
  
Wesley stared across the hallway as if transfixed. This was stretching the bounds of coincidence. Now there were two people in the hotel besides Wesley that had something to do with Rupert, one of whom was definitely dangerous. What on earth was going on?  
  
The door opened, and the tall young man from the night before was framed in the opening. Wesley still didn't recognize him, but the name Ethan exclaimed was definitely one he knew.  
  
"Riley Finn?" Wesley murmured. "Buffy's ex-boyfriend, in contact with Ethan Rayne? This can't be good."  
  
Hurriedly, he pulled the key from his pocket again and unlocked the room door. Forget relocating, this business with Ethan and Riley was too important to ignore. It was unlikely that it had anything to do with Connor, but he had most of a day before Rupert would arrive to help him. In the meantime, this was definitely something Rupert would want to know about.  
  
Wesley moved his suitcases back inside the room, then stood there a moment, staring at the telephone in indecision. Should he let anyone else know about this? He didn't exactly want to speak with any of the Angel Investigations staff, but there wasn't anyone else he could inform. Rupert was already on his way, and there really was no point in calling the Slayer unless things got catastrophically out of control.  
  
Well. He could call Cordelia's apartment. She might still be on vacation, and if not, she was likely to be at the Hyperion. Being Cordelia, however, she would probably check her messages often, and would therefore be able to pass the warning along in a timely fashion. Yes. That would work.  
  
Wes stepped quickly over to the 'phone and dialed Cordelia's number, then carried the instrument back over towards the windows. While it rang, he parted the miniblinds at eye-level with finger and thumb, watching the conversation taking place across the way.  
  
After three rings, someone picked up at the other end. "Hello?" Cordelia asked, in a quiet, depressed tone of voice.  
  
Blast. "This day just keeps getting better," Wesley muttered under his breath.  
  
"What? Wes, is that you? Where have you been?" Cordelia spoke much more loudly now, with worry in her tone. The 'phone picked up other voices faintly in the background, asking questions that Wes couldn't quite hear.  
  
"I can't talk," he said, quickly. "Ethan Rayne is in town. I thought someone should know."  
  
"Wes, where are you?" Cordelia asked again, more urgently. "Fred was upset. She didn't mean it. We need you here!"  
  
Wesley swallowed, then resolutely put the receiver down and cut off the call. He was dismayed to find that his hands were trembling. "No," he said to the empty air, "you don't."  
  
He was uncomfortably reminded of the days after the Blim incident. Despair, guilt, shame; old friends, all three. No. He would not return this time, not until he found Connor again, and perhaps not even then. It was time he moved on, before he caused any more hurt to the people he cared about.  
  
He peered through the miniblinds again, and saw Ethan exiting the room, closely followed by Riley. It was time to justify his "private investigator" title. Wes waited until they were halfway down the corridor, backs to him, then stepped outside, relocked his own door, and followed.  
  
It was more difficult for him to keep pace than he'd hoped. By the time he reached the the sidewalk in front of the bar, he desperately wanted a glass of something numbing. He knew it was stupid to drink with painkillers in his system, but since the painkillers weren't adequately doing their job ...  
  
Ah. Door. Wes entered the bar quietly and stood in the entryway for a moment, carefully scanning the main room for his quarry. In all likelihood, Ethan had no idea what he looked like now, so he wasn't much worried, but instinct told him to be careful. He hadn't the energy to defy Ethan at the moment, and Ethan had a reputation for holding grudges.  
  
Wes had only been eleven or so the last time he'd seen the man in person. He'd accompanied his father on Council grounds and noticed the young sorcerer hiding in the Library building. Many years later, he'd found out that Ethan had been visiting Rupert that night, trying to coax his old friend back to the streets. Instead, due to Wes' discovery, Ethan had been forcibly ejected from the property and it had been firmly warded against him.  
  
Wes frowned. He didn't see Ethan or Riley anywhere visible. That wasn't good. Still ... the investigating could wait for a moment. He would sit down, order a drink, and *then* make every effort to find them and eavesdrop on their conversation. Just as soon as ...  
  
"Well, if it isn't the little Watcher," someone said, grinning, in his ear.  
  
Wesley sighed. "Well, there goes that idea."  
  
TBC 


	11. Reminiscing

Chapter Eleven  
  
Jonathan followed Ethan out the door, shaking his head as he went. "Next time, I'm going to be more careful picking my disguise."  
  
Ethan chuckled. "Oh, I would have found you eventually," he replied, glancing briefly over his shoulder at Jonathan as he walked. "But, you're right. Riley Finn wasn't a very good choice. What made you pick him?"  
  
Jonathan wrinkled his brow, studying Ethan's profile, wondering how much he should tell. If he said it had been prepared in the interest of distracting Buffy, he'd be pretty much admitting what he was running away from. But what other excuse could he use?  
  
Suddenly, he realized that he *had* seen Ethan before. Back in the year the swimming team had gone whacko. Back in the year he'd finally noticed that *everything* was going whacko. "Wait a minute," he said, alarmed again. "I have a question for you first. You're the guy from the costume shop, right? The one that sold me a frog costume?"  
  
Ethan glanced back at him again, with a strange expression on his face. "Yes, actually. I'm rather surprised you remember."  
  
"How could I forget?" Jonathan's voice rose in horror. "I was picking bug parts out of my teeth for days! Ugh!" He shuddered. "I should have taken the knight costume I wanted first!"  
  
Ethan chuckled. "But you had a lot less chance of being injured as a giant frog, you must admit."  
  
"You did that on purpose?" Jonathan couldn't believe what he was hearing.  
  
"Well," Ethan shrugged, "I was there in the interests of chaos, but chaos is, after all, a balancing force. Someone had to be the frog. Why not you?"  
  
"That isn't really an answer." Jonathan scowled at the Englishman. "And who are you, anyway? Seems like you already know a lot about me."  
  
Ethan stopped at the edge of the street and turned to look at him again. "I ..."   
  
Abruptly, he cut himself off and squinted over Jonathan's shoulder. "We're being followed, and ... well." He smiled, the dangerous smile Jonathan had seen first. "Well, well, well. Someone else is about to join the party. Come."  
  
Jonathan scowled again, but followed Ethan anyway as he set out across the street. "Whatever, man. I'm getting sick of the mystery routine."  
  
Ethan didn't comment. He hurried into the bar, then stepped to one side and gripped Jonathan tightly around the upper arm. Just when Jonathan was about to protest, Ethan began chanting quietly in Latin, and the world dimmed around them. It stopped at about half-light, but all of a sudden people weren't noticing them anymore.  
  
"Whoa," Jonathan whispered. "That's pretty cool."  
  
"Shhhh." Ethan admonished him. "Being invisible doesn't help if they can hear you."  
  
"Duh," Jonathan said, rolling his eyes. As if he didn't already know *that* from the whole invisibility-ray disaster. Just thinking about it made his skin smart where Buffy had pulled his chest-hair.  
  
They waited there a moment, then the door swung open once more and their pursuer stepped inside. It was Wesley. Jonathan still didn't know the Watcher's last name, but it was plain that the guy wasn't feeling too well.  
  
Ethan was grinning again. Jonathan frowned at him. What was so funny about this? Wes was pale and sweating, and the bandage around his neck was showing spots of fresh blood. He obviously wasn't here for the hell of it. He looked worried. And maybe he had a right to be.  
  
"Well, if it isn't the little Watcher," Ethan finally said, grinning, leaning over next to Wesley's ear.  
  
Wes sighed. "Well, there goes that idea."  
  
Ethan laughed. "Sneaking up on us? That wasn't necessary. Why don't you just join us for a drink?" He waved a hand and muttered a few more words, and the world brightened up again.  
  
Jonathan blinked at each of them, nonplussed. "Is this some kind of game?"  
  
Wesley turned to look at them. "I could ask you the same question, Riley Finn. I wasn't aware that you knew Mr. Rayne."  
  
Jonathan rolled his eyes. "I don't. And I'm not really Riley Finn, either. If I were, I'd be with my wife in Nepal." *That* whole ordeal had sure been interesting to watch on the monitors.  
  
"Nepal?" Ethan said, sounding interested.  
  
"Wife?" Wesley asked, sounding confused.  
  
"Let's just get a booth, guys," Jonathan said. "I'm getting impatient here. Let's skip ahead to the explanation part of this little outing."  
  
"Yes, let's," Wes said, turning his gaze on Ethan.  
  
"All right, all right." Ethan threaded his way to a little table near the left edge of the room, studying each other as they went.  
  
Wesley heaved a sigh as he sank into a seat and immediately flagged down a waitress. Ethan watched him, a little smirk on his face.  
  
Jonathan watched them both. He didn't want to talk first, and for all his impatience, the dynamic between the other two was kind of interesting. Strangely enough, it reminded him of Xander and Spike.  
  
Finally Ethan spoke, but it was to Wesley again, not to Jonathan. "You've grown in strength, haven't you? It's really too bad I didn't just borrow you that day, instead of waiting for Rupert. If I'd had a chance to teach you, before the Council sank its teeth into your psyche ..."  
  
Wesley snorted, and tilted back his first drink. "Not possible, considering who my father is. I was indoctrinated from the cradle."  
  
Ethan frowned at him. "Oh? Oh! Right. Wyndham-Price. One of the senior Watchers."  
  
Wes gave him the raised eyebrow, and Ethan chuckled.   
  
"That day you got me kicked out wasn't my first visit. I was determined to be a bad influence on Rupert, it's true, but that wasn't all I did on Council grounds. I picked some things up, and I've kept an ear out since." Ethan paused, studying Wesley again. "You know, it's surprising, really; you're nothing like him."  
  
"Who, my father?" Wesley asked, starting on his second glass. "Thank God for that."  
  
"Speaking of fathers who don't resemble their sons ..." Ethan drew the sentence out, glancing at Jonathan.  
  
Jonathan grumbled. "I don't know why you're bringing up my dad, but whatever it is, it doesn't matter. I'm adopted."  
  
Ethan nodded, as if something had been confirmed. "I'd been wondering if they ever told you that."  
  
"Why?" Jonathan almost jumped out of his chair. "You've been hinting around at something ever since you knocked on my door. Give me the reason already!"  
  
There it was again, that dangerous grin. "All right. Ready, then, Jonathan? How's this. I'm your real father."  
  
TBC 


	12. Now it Makes Sense

Chapter Twelve  
  
Wesley choked, spraying alcohol over half the table. Neither Ethan nor the one he'd called Jonathan seemed to notice. Ethan Rayne had a son?  
  
"Say what?" Jonathan seemed just as startled. "But, you're, you're British."  
  
Ethan chuckled. "And you live on the Hellmouth. I didn't just visit the place for Ripper's sake, you know. There's something about it that draws all who have touched the darker arts. When I found out you were going to be born, I meddled with your adoption papers and made sure you went there. It's a handy training ground, isn't it? Now you're almost 21, with power of your own, and a distinct tendency to chaos already. I couldn't be happier."  
  
Jonathan blinked at him. "What are you, Darth Vader?" he said. "I don't believe this."  
  
Of course, if Ethan were Vader, that would put Jonathan in Luke's role. Wes wondered if Jonathan realized that, or if Ethan did; not very promising imagery for a man hoping to enlist his long-lost son in the family business.  
  
"Look, Jonathan," Ethan said. "I don't expect you to trust me immediately. In fact, I'd be disappointed if you did. I'm just asking that you spend some time with me and decide whether you like what I do. I'm fairly certain you will."  
  
Jonathan fidgeted in his chair for a moment, then stood up. "I'm going to take a break and think about this," he said. "Don't go anywhere." Then he strode off in the direction of the restrooms.  
  
Wes watched the young man leave the table. Well, that had been informative. Why had Ethan let him sit and listen to the whole thing? What was his role in all of this? Was Wes the Han Solo of the group, or a nameless red-shirt?   
  
"Ah, he's a good boy," Ethan said, following Jonathan's progress with his gaze. "He'll come around."  
  
Wes shook his head. "Excuse me if I rather hope otherwise," he said.  
  
Ethan turned back to the table with a smirk and downed his own drink. "So what are you really doing here, Wesley?"  
  
Wes sighed. Well, was there any point in lying? "It's a long story," he said, gesturing at the bandages on his neck. "I lost Angel's son."  
  
Ethan raised an eyebrow and leaned forward. "Angel has a son?" he asked. "Really? But he's a vampire. I thought that wasn't possible."  
  
"Oh, so did everyone else," Wes said, waving a hand in the air. Dimly, he was aware that the alcohol was starting to react with the painkillers, and that he'd be better off shutting up now, but it was hard to care.   
  
"You remember all those demonic prophecies," he continued. "The ones about the miracle child, the golden child. That's Connor. He's Angel's son by Darla."  
  
Ethan stared at him. "Fascinating. Yes, I've heard the tales. In fact, I ran into a chap a couple of days ago here in town with a bizarre story about the miracle child and a time-travelling demon. Do you think they might be related?"  
  
Wesley froze, paralyzed by a sudden stab of hope and disbelief. "I ... Oh God. I know what this is! I knew there were too many coincidences! It's all ... it's all ..." He shook his head, trying to find the word, but could only come up with Fred's bit of nonsense. "It's all conflue-y!"  
  
"Ah, Wesley?" Ethan frowned at him. "Are you all right?"  
  
"Not in the slightest!" Wes exclaimed, suddenly excited. "Do go on! What did the chap have to say?"  
  
Ethan smiled. "I can do better. I didn't believe his tale, so I captured the events out of his memory. Here." He pulled a small, oval mirror out of his jacket pocket, and faced it towards Wesley. "Watch."  
  
A few words in Latin, and the mirror stopped reflecting Wesley's pale face. It began to glow, with shapes moving softly under a haze of color, and then cleared to show a patch of English countryside.  
  
Wes watched as a swirling portal sucked all the color out of the scene, then dwindled away, leaving Sahjhan and Holtz standing in a country lane, next to the gate of a private drive. He gasped as he recognized Connor in Holtz' arms. Holtz looked awful, as though he'd been folded, spindled, and mutilated on the passage through the portal, but what Wes could see of Connor's face was still unmarked and peaceful.  
  
"Good," Wes sighed. "The protection spell held. I only meant it to last for 48 hours, until we were safely in England, so they can't have been in the Hell dimension for long."  
  
"Shh," Ethan said. "Listen."  
  
Sure enough, there were voices quietly accompanying the scene.  
  
"Where is this place?" Holtz was asking. He sounded a little disoriented.  
  
"This? Sahjhan answered. "Oh, it's the world you jumped from, some number of years in the past."  
  
"In the past?" Holtz flinched. "How far into the past? And, why?"  
  
"Oh, a few decades or so. Not to worry, you'll run no risk of meeting yourself here."  
  
"But, why?" Holtz repeated.  
  
The demon shrugged casually. "Why what?"  
  
"Why bring me here, now? I thought you wanted the child dead. It would have been easier to leave us in that place."  
  
Sahjhan snorted. "Quortoth? Quite the place, wasn't it? Shame how it didn't touch the little nipper, though."  
  
Holtz looked down at Connor, and rubbed the smooth cheek with one rough, singed finger. "How is that possible?"  
  
"I'm not sure," Sahjhan said. "There's a protection spell on him, but I'm not sure how long it will last, or who cast it on him. It might even be the Powers; I've heard that Darla tried to rid herself of him several times, but was never successful."  
  
"That's an interesting theory," Holtz said, straightening his back and speaking with more confidence. "But it's not very helpful to my cause. What happens now?"  
  
Sahjhan laughed. "Well, for starters, we're going to leave the tyke here, at this gate."  
  
"To what purpose?"  
  
"Well, there's no getting out of the prophecy. It states pretty clearly that the father will kill the son. What's more, the confluence of events will make sure that happens in L.A., back in the week you jumped out of. I can't pin down the exact day, but I'm sure of that week. I have sources the humans don't."  
  
"And?" Holtz interrupted the demon's speech. "Get to the point."  
  
Sahjhan obliged. "When you jumped, I had a brilliant idea. Why not send him to the past, and let him grow up as part of a community that hates Angel, souled or not? He'll be an adult now, not an infant, and Angel will have to defend himself. Maybe I'll even get two deaths for the price of one."  
  
Holtz nodded. "And if Angel survives, it will maximize his anguish. Not only did he take his son's life, he missed out on everything that made his son into a man."  
  
Sahjhan smiled. "Exactly. So how about it? Put the kid by the gate, ring the bell, and let's get back to L.A. pronto."  
  
"One last thing," Holtz said. "Why not let me raise him myself, as I intended?"  
  
"Are you kidding?" Sahjhan said. "You'd get attached. You wouldn't want him to die, and everything would get all tangled again. Go on. Put him down."  
  
Slowly, Holtz did so, caressing Connor's cheek one more time as he settled the blanket-wrapped infant on the grassy verge. As he reached for the button that would notify the owners someone was at the gate, the plaque on the gatepost came into view.  
  
"Travers Residence," Wesley read, horrified, as the scene faded back into the original reflection.  
  
Ethan chuckled. "Thought you'd like that. And now that I've done my good deed for the year ..." He raised the mirror higher, holding it insistently in front of Wesley's face.  
  
Wes was puzzled, but he looked again anyway ... then gasped. "What have you done?" he exclaimed.  
  
"Oh, it'll only last a few days," Ethan said, laughing. "At least I didn't turn you into a Fyarl, like I did Ripper."  
  
It wasn't Wes' face reflected in the mirror, anymore. It was Holtz.  
  
TBC 


	13. The Fork in the Road

Chapter Thirteen  
  
Jonathan stood in front of the mirror in the restroom for several minutes, just staring at his reflection. Or, rather, Riley Finn's reflection. There was something a little strange about having Deep Thoughts while wearing someone else's face, but he didn't exactly want to zap back to his normal Jonathan-shape and watch his slacks puddle around his ankles. Especially in a men's restroom.  
  
He thought about his parents, the ones who'd raised him for the first eighteen years of his life. He thought about their well-meant attempts to bolster his self-esteem. He thought about their reactions the day Buffy kept him from killing himself in the tower. He thought about playing chess with Dad, watching old Bond movies with Mom, and how they'd wanted him to go to college after the high school blew up.  
  
Jonathan wasn't very close to them, these days. Still. As ineffective as they were, they were his parents. Maybe not his blood parents, but his parents all the same, with warm-fuzzy memories attached. Not that he'd ever admit that to anyone, especially Warren or Andrew! Anyway. This guy, Ethan? Much cooler. Much smarter. Also much more dangerous, and never ever a candidate for warm-fuzzy anything.  
  
So now what? Go with his newfound father, and learn all kinds of powerful new magic? Something about that idea just felt wrong, like a reprise of the last year, only on a bigger scale. People had a tendency to get hurt when the Geek Trio took shortcuts, and Warren cared a lot less about that collateral damage than Jonathan did. Ethan's attitude? Way middle-aged Warren.  
  
But what else was there? Keep hiding in L.A., or what?  
  
Jonathan sighed. Better go out there and talk some more. Maybe he was getting the wrong impression. Maybe Ethan didn't always grin dangerously and make injured guys miserable. And maybe Jonathan was just making up excuses so he didn't have to add another notch to the Life side of Life vs. the Short Idiot. Yeah. Better go rescue Wesley now.  
  
He headed out of the bathroom, winding slowly towards his seat, trying not to think anymore. About halfway there, a faint glow on the table caught his attention. Ethan was holding a mirror in one hand, or something like ... and from behind, Jonathan could see his other hand, making gestures under the table, sprinkling some sort of powder.  
  
"Uh oh," Jonathan said. "This can't be good."  
  
His suspicions were confirmed when Wesley suddenly wasn't Wesley anymore, replaced by a shorter guy with intense features and graying hair. The glowing thing wasn't glowing anymore either -- definitely a mirror -- and Ethan tilted it at Wesley, who suddenly looked absolutely horrified.  
  
Jonathan sighed, and felt suddenly older. "Um, Ethan?" he said, stepping up behind the man that spoke of the Hellmouth as a training ground. A training ground, for God's sake, as if the high death rate was worth it if a few kids developed useful talents to change the misery around them.  
  
"Ah, Jonathan," Ethan said, with amusement still dancing in his eyes. "I think it's time we moved on. Let's leave Mr. Holtz here to his drink and go fetch your things."  
  
"Um, I don't think, I mean ... I'm not coming." Jonathan looked down, concentrating on his shiny overlarge shoes, telling himself he was indeed 6'2" right now, taller than usual, and definitely taller than three inches.  
  
Silence. Then, "Why is that?" in a careful, even tone of voice.  
  
He looked up. Ethan was staring at him again, with a little frown between his eyebrows.  
  
"I just ran away from this, you know," Jonathan replied, uncomfortably. "From this kind of fun, where people get hurt all the time. I can't do it again."  
  
"I worship chaos, Jonathan," Ethan said. His face sagged a little, then he shook his head and put that smile of his back on. "I'm not in the white hat business. It's been that way since before you were born. Watching you this last year or so, I had hoped ... Well. I'll be back on your next birthday to ask you again." And then he was gone.  
  
Jonathan watched him go. "Am I always going to wonder what would happen if I went with him?" he asked the empty air.  
  
Hollow laughter, from the table where no-longer-Wesley still slumped. "Oh, yes. There are always what-ifs with fathers," he said, and met Jonathan's gaze with a small, sad smile.  
  
Even with the tough new face, the man still looked like a kicked puppy. "You don't look so good," Jonathan commented. "What happened to you? Did he make it worse?"  
  
Wes shook his head. "It's a very long story."  
  
"Suit yourself," Jonathan shrugged. "Need any help getting back to your room?"  
  
Wesley's eyes narrowed, and suddenly the kicked puppy was entirely Watcher, measuring Jonathan with his eyes. "Mmm, well," he said. "Since we don't seem to be enemies after all ...?"  
  
The statement hung in the air, and Jonathan decided he could afford to let a little of the truth out. "Maybe a week ago," he said, "if you came to Sunnydale. Now? Here? It's all good." He stepped closer to Wesley, and offered the older man a hand up.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Awkwardly, they made their way out of the bar, Jonathan leading, Wesley gripping his arm and turning greyer with every step. Jonathan paused on the sidewalk outside so Wes could catch his breath, but the short pause kept getting longer.  
  
"Uh, are you okay?" Jonathan tugged at Wesley's arm. "Should I call an ambulance or something?"  
  
"Yeah, you might want to do that."  
  
Another menacing voice. Jonathan rolled his eyes. He'd heard enough of those today, already! Slowly he turned around, and found himself face to face with Angel.  
  
He remembered Angel, sort of. The souled vampire hadn't interacted much with students outside the Scooby Gang, but Jonathan had seen him off and on during all the planning for the Mayor's Ascension. He'd never seen him look quite this pissed, though.  
  
"Daniel Holtz and Riley Finn. You just made my day". With that, Angel picked Wesley up by the shirt front and hurled him bodily into the wall.  
  
TBC 


	14. Found

A/N: Only a few more chapters now. I hope the plot twists haven't *all* been obvious. =)  
  
------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Chapter Fourteen  
  
Wesley knew the moment he stood up that something was going very wrong. Either he was allergic to something, or the combination of magic, drugs, and alcohol in his system was turning sour. Regardless, he was very grateful that Jonathan had chosen "the white hat business". Wes was still curious as to the young man's true purpose for being in Los Angeles, and what Ethan had meant about the boy's activities this past year, but questions could wait until some other day.  
  
Slowly, the pair made their way out of the bar. Jonathan paused on the sidewalk out front, a little courtesy that Wes was very grateful for. He couldn't seem to catch his breath, and his balance was rather shaky.  
  
"Uh, are you okay?" Jonathan was tugging at his arm. "Should I call an ambulance or something?"  
  
An ambulance would be nice. Hospital would be better. Neither was a good idea at this point, however. Wes swallowed, and opened his mouth to frame an answer, but was cut off by a familiar voice from the sidewalk behind them.  
  
"Yeah, you might want to do that." Was that Angel? Here? Now? Bugger ...  
  
The voice continued. "Daniel Holtz and Riley Finn. You just made my day." Fist at Wes' shirtfront, a flash of Angel's angry face, and then he was in the air. For half a second, there was the sensation of giddy flight, then more pain and a wall of blackness. Wes closed his eyes, and knew no more.  
  
Some indeterminate amount of time later, Wesley became aware that he was flat on his back on cold concrete. His ribs were aching and his neck was throbbing, but for some reason his mind was a lot clearer. There were voices going on somewhere above him, and after a moment, he was able to concentrate enough to decipher what they were saying.  
  
" ... sure he's going to be okay?" That was Angel, sounding anxious.  
  
"He should be. He's breathing again, and I know I got the alcohol out of his system. It must have been reacting with something else he's taking, or something Ethan did to him." That was Jonathan.  
  
"That's what you were doing? I didn't know there were spells for that."  
  
"What, getting rid of alcohol? Duh. Teenagers invented that one a long, long time ago."  
  
An actual chuckle from Angel. Wesley furrowed his brow. Angel, in a better mood? What ...  
  
"Look! He's waking up!" Cool fingers, there, on Wes' forehead. "Wesley, can you hear me?"  
  
Wes' eyes fluttered open. "Angel," he said, weakly. "Can explain ..."  
  
"Shhh," Angel said. "You're so sorry, right? Well so am I. Does that sum it up? We can get into the blaming and brooding later. For now, we need to get you back to the Hyperion. Where's your keys?"  
  
Wes fumbled with his pockets. "Luggage in room 12 ..."  
  
"On it," Jonathan said. He took the keys from Wes' unsteady hand. "Did you bring your own car?"  
  
Car? Ha. Wes smiled a little. "With leather pants? Try motorcycle."  
  
Jonathan's eyes widened. "That's yours?" He looked over at Angel. "Can I drive it back to wherever for you guys? I promise I won't wreck it."  
  
"Ask him, not me." Angel shrugged.  
  
"Go ahead," Wes said. "I'm unable to at the moment, and I'd prefer not to leave it here."  
  
Jonathan's face lit up with a delighted smile. "Yes! I mean, sorry you can't and all, but ... hey." Then he shifted, addressing Angel again. "I'll bring all the luggage over, then get the bike and follow you back. Where did you say your car was?"  
  
"About a block that way," the vampire agreed, pointing an arm down the street. "I'll put Wes in the back seat and wait for you."  
  
"Got it."  
  
Very unusual, this being fussed over by Angel. Especially after losing Connor. It made Wes feel a little uneasy, but he wasn't exactly in a position to protest. What was he going to say? "Leave me here, I'm not worthy?" It might be true, but it would also be very stupid.  
  
Angel carried him easily down the street, then laid him carefully on the back seat of the convertible. It still smelled faintly of the cleaners Angel had used after Darla's water broke in the car. Wes tried to say something again, anything, a thank-you maybe, or a promise to get Connor back, but Angel shushed him once more.  
  
"Rest, Wes. Holtz is around here somewhere -- that's why I was out hunting to begin with. Let's save the talking until we're back in the hotel." Angel slid into the front seat and started drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.  
  
A few minutes passed like that in relative silence. Then, footsteps approached. Angel shifted his attention to the sidewalk, and Wes saw him do an obvious double-take. "Oh," he said. "Jonathan! You're you again, too." A pause. "I do remember you, kind of. Weren't you helping us with the whole Mayor thing?"  
  
Jonathan leaned over the passenger door and put Wes' suitcases and a duffel on the seat. Angel was right; Wes remembered seeing this short young man in Sunnydale. Hadn't there been a rifle involved at some point? Hard to remember.   
  
He'd never have guessed then, but now that he knew, he could see the traces of Ethan in the boy's face. The world really *was* a small place -- at least, if the Hellmouth was involved.  
  
"Yeah." Jonathan was answering Angel's question. "Larry and I were helping out with the bomb stuff ..."  
  
"What was that about talking later?" Wes interrupted quietly, with a faint smile.  
  
Angel snorted, then turned the key in the ignition. "Smart ass."  
  
... Wait a minute, Wesley thought, watching Jonathan walk away towards where the motorcycle was parked. "You're you again, too?" he repeated silently, then sat up carefully and glanced in one of the car mirrors. Sure enough, Wes was Wes again. But hadn't Ethan said it would take a few days for that to happen?  
  
TBC 


	15. Group Confrontations

Chapter Fifteen  
  
Jonathan grinned as he put the helmet on and settled into the seat of the motorcycle. Now *this* was transportation. If he had a choice between Angel's convertible and Wesley's motorcycle, he'd choose the bike every time.  
  
The drive back to the Hyperion was just long enough to feel like a decent ride. The sun hadn't been down very long -- in fact, it must have set while he and Wes were in the bar with Ethan -- so the air was still a decent temperature, and there weren't many suspiciously pale people on the streets yet.  
  
They finally parked at an old hotel, the Hyperion. Jonathan carefully put the kickstand down on the bike and stowed the helmet, then went back to the convertible to get the luggage again. Duffel bag over the shoulder, one suitcase for each hand.  
  
Wes managed to get out of the car on his own two feet, but he wasn't moving very fast, even with Angel there for support. Jonathan didn't blame him. He'd had a hell of day, and from what Angel said, it wasn't the first.   
  
Not that Angel was much better off, at least emotionally. When Wes had crumpled against the wall and turned back into himself, Angel had started talking, and hadn't shut up until they were sure Wes was going to be OK. All the anger had bled right out of Angel like a dam had burst, and he kept going until he exhausted all the how-could-he's and the why-didn't-he's and the I-would-never's clear through to the I-should-have's and the I'm-sorry's.   
  
These people were *so* fucked up. But they *cared*. It made Jonathan feel sorry for them and jealous of them all at the same time.  
  
The lobby looked nice, when they finally got inside, but Jonathan didn't get much of a chance to look around. As soon as the doors shut behind them, there was a gasp from somewhere up the stairs and a petite brunette came running down towards the three men.  
  
"In the courtyard, quick!" she hissed at them. "I'm so glad you're here, both of you ... all three of you, I guess, except I don't know who you are ..." She paused to glance at Jonathan. "But really this isn't a very good time." She stopped only a foot or so away, casting nervous glances in the direction of the office door.  
  
"Fred? What's going on?" Wes asked quietly.  
  
"Shhh!!" Fred hissed again, and made shooing motions off to the side.  
  
Jonathan looked at the luggage in his hands, then shrugged, and followed the others into a small outdoor area filled with green growing things. And something else green. Or *someone*.  
  
"Wes? It's about time you got back," the green guy said. He had actual horns, and red eyes, and everything. It was creepy. Jonathan hadn't seen many friendly demons on the Hellmouth -- no surprise there -- but no one else seemed to mind this guy. Jonathan decided to just stand quietly near the door, hoping to go unnoticed.  
  
"Could have done without the bump on the skull, though," the green guy continued, narrowing his eyes at Wes. "Seriously, kid, when are you going to learn how to share your troubles?"  
  
Wes looked away.  
  
"Anyway. Let's just put that issue on hold, because there are bigger ones right now. In your office. Threatening Cordelia. Present company included, some times I think these Watcher's Council types couldn't find their own ..."  
  
"Lorne." Angel cut off the flow of words.  
  
"There's three of them," Fred said, speaking up. "They didn't give us any names. They just yelled at us and asked us where you were, Wes. Cordy eventually sent me out to keep watch."  
  
"What did you tell them?" he asked, finally meeting her eyes.  
  
She shrugged. "That you were in the hospital. They checked, of course, and then they got all upset about you being missing."  
  
"But what do they want with me?" Wes sounded utterly mystified.  
  
"I've been eavesdropping, but they still ain't saying." Another person came crowding into the courtyard, a tall black guy who immediately walked up to Fred and clasped one of her hands. "But the leader of these guys, he's got a little box in his hands that he won't put down, and he's started mentioning Connor's name like he knows it means something."  
  
Wes flinched. "Connor? But I didn't ..." He trailed off, biting his lip, deep in thought. "If they overheard one of my conversations with Rupert ... or if ..." He looked over at Angel, a pained expression on his face. "If one of them is Quentin Travers, and he's had a visit from Sahjhan ..."  
  
The anger was back, simmering in Angel's eyes like it had never been gone. "What's Sahjhan got to do with the Watcher's Council?" he growled.  
  
"Perhaps nothing," Wes said, quietly. "Perhaps everything. Just ... just don't kill anyone today, Angel. Especially Quentin Travers. Trust me on this."  
  
"Wes..." That was several people, all talking at once.  
  
"I really should go in and talk to them," Wes said, refusing to look at any of his friends. "I'll send Cordelia out here."  
  
None of them tried very hard to hold him back. Not even Jonathan, who thought they were all being very foolish, and that Wesley would be far better off getting some sleep.  
  
"So, young Jedi ..."  
  
Jonathan blinked in startlement, and found Lorne staring at him.  
  
"Tell us *your* story." It wasn't just the green guy; they were *all* looking at him now, even if Lorne was the only one speaking.  
  
"Um ... I think I'll just go and make sure Wesley doesn't fall down." He almost ran out of the courtyard, leaving the luggage behind.  
  
TBC 


	16. Shades of Pandora

Chapter Sixteen  
  
Wes stopped halfway across the lobby to catch his breath. His hands were trembling again, and he wasn't sure whether it was a reaction to his physical state, or his emotional one. Beyond all the difficulties with his friends, his guilt, and his fears about Connor's identity, the very idea of facing down a group of Watchers made his spirits sink. He hadn't spoken to anyone from the higher levels of the Council in person since he had been fired and left virtually penniless on American soil.  
  
An old Buffy-esque phrase came to mind, one that seemed appropriate to the occasion: "This is so not of the good." The girl had a definite talent for butchering the English language. She had certainly helped make his brief stint as an active Watcher lively, if nothing else. Perhaps Wes could borrow a page from her book, and stare the Council down? No harm in trying; but he had no idea how to manage it.  
  
Footsteps behind him. "Your friends scare me, Wesley."  
  
"Yes, well." Wes frowned, trying to find some neutral way to explain their behavior to Jonathan. "They're all a little upset just now."  
  
"Yeah, I know." Jonathan appeared at his elbow, looking determined. "I heard some of it from Angel. That's not what I meant. But never mind. Need some help in there?"  
  
"Help?" Where had that come from? Surely there wasn't anything that Jonathan could do? And what had prompted Jonathan to ask, anyway? This wasn't his fight. Wes raised his eyebrows. "I'm not sure you would be of much assistance in an argument with the Watcher's Council ..."  
  
"Not for that, dumbass." Jonathan glared up at him. "I meant like moral support. Or just plain support. We already scraped you off the pavement once today, you know."  
  
Wes blinked at him. "Did they ask you to help me?" he asked, glancing back towards the courtyard. The thought was like a tiny bright spark in his internal gloom.  
  
"Your friends? No, I think they're too busy trying to stay calm. Besides. They started asking *me* questions."  
  
Wes couldn't help smiling at that, despite the sting of dashed hope. "Ah. Of course. An ulterior motive."  
  
Jonathan shrugged. "Anyway. Let's not keep the English guys waiting."  
  
Wes thought about that a moment, and then suddenly had an idea. "I appreciate the offer, but I really don't need any support; I don't wish to look weak in front of the Council. However, I might be able to use you as a distraction ..."  
  
"A distraction?" Now it was Jonathan with the raised eyebrows, sounding faintly alarmed.  
  
"Just stand behind me and glower. You needn't say anything," Wes instructed him, and smiled. This might not be such an awful interview after all.  
  
"I'm five-foot-two. How am I going to distract anybody?"   
  
Jonathan's confused mutterings just made Wesley's smile widen as the steel crept back into his blue eyes. He now had a plan. Granted, his plans often went wrong, but it was a plan all the same. With some small measure of confidence thus restored, he approached the office door and opened it.  
  
"Wes! Thank God!" Cordelia leapt up from her seat behind the desk and rushed around it to hug him, brushing two hovering Council types out of the way. She gave him a quick squeeze, making him wince in pain and spots dance in his vision, then pulled back and stared seriously into his eyes.  
  
"I'm sure you've already heard it all, or said it to yourself," she said, emphasizing her words carefully. "So I'll just say, ditto. But if you go all Brood Boy on this and take off again, I'll hunt you down myself. Clear?"  
  
Unaccountably, his throat tightened up again, and he cleared it self-consciously. "Clear," he agreed. "The others are waiting for you."  
  
She nodded, then leaned in until Wes could feel her breath on his ear. "I think they know where Connor is," she whispered, then swept around him in a flash of brown eyes and tanned skin.  
  
She didn't appear to have noticed Jonathan's presence in the room in her hurry to exit, but the Council envoys did. "Mr. Wyndham-Price," said the eldest of the suit-clad, stiff-backed trio, as soon as the door shut behind Cordelia. "And Mr. ...?"  
  
Wes could see the box Gunn had mentioned held tightly in the man's hands. It was small and metallic and did not resemble any important artifact Wes was aware of. Yet it was here, in Quentin Travers' grip. Wes brushed off the lingering warmth of the encounter with Cordelia, and met the man's gaze without flinching. Evenly, his manner cold and aloof, he said, "This is Jonathan Rayne, whose father I believe you are acquainted with?"  
  
Travers' eyes narrowed as he contemplated that. "Ethan Rayne, do you mean? I was not aware that he had any sons."  
  
"The very same. Interestingly enough, they share not only genetic material, but also certain abilities, and certain attitudes towards the Council." Wes left the statement floating in the air, with a slight smirk on his face.  
  
Apparently Jonathan had taken that as a cue; Latin syllables interrupted the silence, and Travers suddenly turned pale. "Is that a threat?" the man asked, trying to sound belligerent.  
  
Thank you, Jonathan, Wesley thought. He had no idea what the boy had done, but it had had just the right effect. "Funny that you should mention threats," Wes continued aloud. "I've been told that you were in here threatening my staff in my absence?"  
  
"Of course not, sir," the second Watcher said, hurriedly. "We were merely very concerned as to your whereabouts, and the young ladies may have taken our enthusiasm amiss."  
  
"Ah. Of course. Silly of them." Wes didn't take his eyes off of Travers. "So why *were* you so concerned with my whereabouts?"  
  
"You tell us," Travers spat. "This box, which appears to be of extra-dimensional origin, turned up on my desk yesterday evening with a message on it that read only, 'To Wesley Wyndham-Price, Regarding Connor.' At about the same time, I was informed that Mr. Giles, whom we are aware is still in contact with you, had disappeared from his flat in Bath. Combine these facts with the known appearance of a portal to Quortoth in Los Angeles on Monday, and we have a very interesting puzzle."  
  
"So what does the box contain?" Wesley asked, trying to sound bored.  
  
"We don't know," the third Watcher admitted, casting an apologetic look at Travers. "It won't open, no matter what we do. We think it's keyed to you, specifically."  
  
"Well then." Wesley held out a hand. "If I may?"  
  
Travers glared at him for several seconds, then glanced over Wes' shoulder and finally stepped forward to place the box on Wes' outstretched palm.  
  
As soon as the metallic surface touched Wesley's skin, the box began to glow, much as Ethan's mirror had earlier in the day. Then it popped open with a muffled click, exposing the contents.  
  
TBC 


	17. Where There's Smoke

Chapter Seventeen  
  
"Jonathan Rayne"? What the ... oh. Being the distraction, here. Of course Rayne would sound more intimidating, especially to these guys, than Levinson would. Also, it sounded kind of cool. All things considered, Jonathan guessed he could forgive Wesley for the name change.  
  
Actually, it was pretty smart of Wesley. And pretty impressive, too. Like watching Buffy's transformation under the stairs the other day. Just a few minutes ago Wes had been all wilted and depressed, and look at him now, going all Captain Picard on these guys.  
  
Not to mention, letting Jonathan have some fun, too. So he was supposed to have an attitude towards the Council? Okay. He knew a couple of fast spells that didn't really have much oomph, but looked pretty impressive.   
  
Quickly, he pulled a small baggie from his pocket and took a pinch of powder from it. It was only wood ash from a campfire, not really smoke, but close enough. He and Warren and Andrew had gone camping once this last year, and Jonathan had gotten sick of all the nasty tricks they played on him in his sleep. So one night he had stayed up and figured out all kinds of things he could do with basic camping materials to get them back. The results had mostly been pretty lame and not very useful, but this spell had at least gotten a good reaction.  
  
"Ubi fumus, ibi ignis," Jonathan said, concentrating hard. (Where there's smoke, there's fire). Little multicolored tongues of cold fire started licking up from the floor, moving quickly until they covered him to his shoulders. Then he held out the hand with the ash in it, cupping the palm, and a globe of flame gathered there, looking suspiciously weapon-like.   
  
None of it actually did anything, since his experiments with actually making the fire *burn* had only toasted his own leg-hair, but there was no way the Watchers could know that.  
  
The guy that seemed to be the leader gave him a startled look and turned pale. "Is that a threat?" the man asked Wes. Gotcha! Jonathan grinned. And how smooth was Wes? He didn't even peek to see what Jonathan had done.  
  
The rest of the conversation went fairly well. The younger two Watchers pretty much folded and starting sucking up to Wes, and the leader-guy went from coolly condescending to bitterly submissive.  
  
Then Wesley asked for the box. "Well then. If I may?"  
  
Leader-guy glared at him for several seconds, then glanced back at Jonathan. Jonathan raised his eyebrows, and the guy glared back. With narrowed eyes and a nostril-flare, even. Well, so much for ever being on friendly terms with him. Not that Jonathan cared much.  
  
Finally, the box was placed in Wesley's hands. As soon as the metallic surface touched his skin, the box glowed, like Ethan's mirror had earlier in the evening. Then it popped open with a muffled click, exposing the contents.  
  
Wes stared down into the box with an absolutely astonished expression on his face. Then he reached into it and plucked out one small thing: a pebble. Jonathan's first thought was that it must be a magic stone, or an uncut gem or something, but it looked just like an ordinary piece of rock. It was gray, with a few glints of amber and aquamarine speckled on its surface, and it wasn't much bigger than the end of Wes' thumb. As soon as it was free of its enclosure, the little box vanished with a faint chime and a flash of light.  
  
"Well?" The lead watcher asked, impatiently. "What is that? What does it have to do with anything? And who's this Connor?"  
  
Wes ignored him.  
  
The man tried again, growing angrier. "I asked around after the box showed up. I was told that your vampire friend Angel had a son recently, which you didn't tell us about, despite the prophecies that a miracle child would bring an end to human existence. Is Connor the child's name? I demand an answer on this subject, Wesley. You had no right to keep this from the Council."  
  
Wes looked up, at last. Something else had clicked behind those eyes, Jonathan thought. The Captain Picard-ness had gone, and he looked more Gil Grissom-ish, now. Calm, collected, and well aware that he was in possession of more facts than anyone else in the room.  
  
"Go, Travers. Come back at midday tomorrow. Rupert will be here by then."  
  
Oh. This was Travers? The one Wes had told Angel not to kill? Angel had mumbled something about a prophecy before, the one Wes had gone haywire over, that 'The Father Will Kill The Son'. But Travers definitely wasn't a months-old baby!  
  
It was much easier to decipher Travers' thought process. He practically vibrated with outrage. "We're not going anywhere. I demand ..."  
  
"You demand nothing." Wes didn't speak loudly, but the words seemed weightier than anything else in the room. "Come back tomorrow."  
  
"Oh, sod this." Travers stormed past them out of the room, closely followed by his two nervous associates. They were all very careful not to get too close to Jonathan as they left.  
  
Once he was certain the Watchers had left the hotel, Jonathan extinguished his fake fire armor and shook the ashes into the wastebasket. Then he stepped up next to his new friend, looking at the little stone still in Wes' palm. "Wesley? What's up with the pebble?"  
  
Wes shook his head. "Jonathan? Was I ... dead?"  
  
"What?" ... Oh. "Not for long. The wind got knocked out of you, I guess, and with all the crap in you, and the shock, you just stopped. I did CPR."  
  
Wes just nodded, looking faintly dazed.  
  
"Wes, what does that ...?" Jonathan blinked as a suspicion began forming. No. Couldn't be. Except. "Don't tell me. There's time travel involved in all this? Cool!"  
  
TBC 


	18. Daddy Issues

Chapter Eighteen  
  
When the box clicked open, Wesley hadn't known what to expect. A letter, perhaps, mocking his failure and detailing Connor's life without his father? A lock of Connor's hair? The key to a location where Connor was being imprisoned? Or perhaps some kind of trap? Regardless, he had not expected to see the item that rested on the bottom of the box.  
  
It was a pebble. A small one, about as large as the end of his thumb, a light grey in color with speckles of amber and aquamarine. The kind of thing a child might pick up and put in his pocket, thinking it was pretty. The kind of thing a child had, in fact, once put in his pocket, about twenty years ago.  
  
Wesley plucked it from the box, barely noticing when the box itself vanished. There was a faint chime in the air, and a flash of light, but all he saw was the pebble, and all he heard was a lady's voice, whispering, amused. "Done."   
  
Ah, yes. He remembered that voice. He knew what she was now, of course, but at eleven, he'd been hurting, alone, and trying avoid thinking about his father's demonology texts. And truthfully, he wasn't sure it would have mattered.  
  
He had found the pebble the day after he'd run into Ethan Rayne. Wes disliked Ethan, as an adult; he knew perfectly well what Ethan was, and the kind of chaos sown in the sorceror's wake. But as a boy, he had been impressed by Ethan's casual power, laughing defiance of the Council's wishes, and undeniable strength of will.  
  
Wes had come back from the errand that had taken him into the Library and innocently mentioned the encounter to his father. His father had immediately searched out the security director to make Wes repeat every detail of his meeting with Ethan. Not only had Ethan been severely treated as a result, Wesley had been thoroughly punished for daring to be upset about it.  
  
The next morning, Wes had run away. It hadn't lasted long. He'd been in his father's office being punished again by nightfall. That morning, however, Wes had escaped to a nearby village that sat along the banks of a small stream. There had been any number of pretty stones there, sparkling in the water, but Wes had only taken one.  
  
When the path led him through the centre of town, Wes had come across an old wishing well. He knew, of course, that most wishing wells were not mystically enchanted, nor did they contain benevolent spirits; his father had lectured him out of most popular childhood beliefs by the age of five. All the same, on that particular day, something had prompted him to make a wish.  
  
While he'd been searching his pockets for something to drop in, a pretty lady had appeared on the path beside him. "Hullo," she had said, "what's your name?"  
  
"Wesley. Just Wesley. I'm tired of being Wesley Wyndham-Price."  
  
"Really?" the lady had asked, with a big smile and a tilt of her head. "I'm Halfrek. Are you here to make a wish?"  
  
Wes had sniffled and mumbled and complained that he hadn't a penny, only this little pebble that he had picked up out of the stream.  
  
"Oh, what a lovely pebble. I'm sure it will work, dear. Now just toss it in, and make your wish. Be sure to say it out loud, or it can't come true." She had sounded so positive; he had implicitly trusted her.  
  
"But I thought they had to be secret?" he had asked, blinking up at her with wide blue eyes.   
  
"Oh no," she had laughed. "Wish-granters aren't mind readers, you know. You have to say exactly what you want."  
  
So eleven-year-old Wes had thought, and thought, and finally came up with the best wish he could think of, with plenty of and's to link it all together. "I wish that Mr. Wyndham-Price wasn't my real father, and that my real father has nothing to do with Watchers and doesn't wear suits and would never tell me I'm not good enough and wouldn't make me always study and that I could go live with *him*." So much childhood angst and anger, all wrapped up in one vehement sentence.  
  
The curly-haired lady had opened her mouth to say something, then stopped short and blinked at him in dismay. "Oh, honey," she said. "I didn't realise who you were. I'm sorry. I can't grant that one, although if you wait twenty years I think you might be surprised. Do you have any other wishes today?"  
  
"No! You said if I said it out loud, it would come true!" With stubborn tears in his eyes and a trembling lower lip, Wes had hurled the pebble into the well anyway ... but he had never heard it hit bottom. When he had looked up again, blinking in defiance, Halfrek had vanished.  
  
There was no doubt in Wesley's mind, some twenty years after that day, that it was the very same pebble in his hand, although it looked a little smaller to adult eyes.  
  
... Oh, was Travers still speaking? The words registered, but Wes found it hard to assign them any value. The whole structure of his reality had just been upended, what did he care about the Council's demands? He needed time to assimilate this. Time to think. Time, hopefully, to prove that the sudden conclusion he'd just arrived at was the wrong one. It couldn't *possibly* be true.  
  
Somewhere, he found words. "Go, Travers. Come back at midday tomorrow. Rupert will be here by then." Surely, by then, everything would have fallen back into place.  
  
Travers wasn't satisfied, of course. "We're not going anywhere. I demand ..."  
  
"You demand nothing." Wes didn't speak loudly, but he said each word with complete conviction. "Come back tomorrow."  
  
"Oh, sod this." Travers stormed out of the room, closely followed by the other two Watchers.   
  
Wes felt that he should probably be amazed that Travers had actually listened to him, but he was curiously numb instead. No -- not numb. Hollow. As if he had been emptied out inside, and scrubbed clean.  
  
Jonathan shook something into the wastebasket, and came closer to give the bit of stone a puzzled look. "Wesley? What's up with the pebble?"  
  
Wes shook his head. It was still too large, and uncertain, to speak of. It would strangle him if he tried. There was something else he could speak of, however; another small dangling question in the larger matter. "Jonathan? Was I ... dead?"  
  
"What? Not for long. The wind got knocked out of you, I guess, and with all the crap in you, and the shock, you just stopped. I did CPR."  
  
Ah. Well. Hard to say yet whether that was a good thing, or a bad thing. Whether it could, after all, be attributed to Angel's hand. Whether it would, or would not, disturb the rest of the prophecies.  
  
"Wes, what does that ...?" Jonathan paused, still blinking at him, then suddenly grinned. "Don't tell me. There's time travel involved in all this? Cool!"  
  
"Cool?" Someone actually found this whole ordeal 'cool'? Wes couldn't help it; he started laughing. "Jonathan, it is refreshing to have met you. Mind helping me upstairs? I'm not sure I can keep standing much longer."  
  
TBC 


	19. Another Step

Chapter Nineteen  
  
Jonathan was willing enough to help Wes upstairs, but as it turned out, he didn't need to. As soon as the occupants of the courtyard realized that the Watchers were all gone, they flocked back towards the office.   
  
Fortunately, they didn't all gather *in* the office, where there wasn't really room. They gathered loosely in the lobby and sent the tall black guy (who seemed to be named Gunn) and Angel in to fetch Wes. Instead of carrying him upstairs, though, they settled him into a chair, and Cordelia appeared with bandages, a damp cloth, a tube of ointment, and a small pill.  
  
"Cordelia ..." Wes began to protest, weakly, when he saw it.  
  
"Take it," she ordered him. "It's left over from my Migraine Girl days. You're looking pretty grey there, and I don't want you passing out when I take a look at your stitches. We want you awake for questioning afterwards." Teasing, but with steel underneath.  
  
Fred appeared with a glass of water, and Wes gave up and swallowed the pill with a sigh. Cordelia smiled a little, handed the glass back to Fred, and started unwrapping the soiled bandage around Wes' neck.  
  
About half-way through this process, her eyes met Jonathan's, and she paused. "Jonathan? From Sunnydale, Jonathan?" she exclaimed, finally recognizing him.  
  
Jonathan nodded. "Small world, huh?" He mentally crossed his fingers, hoping she hadn't heard of his recent try at being one of Buffy's nemesis-es. Angel and Wesley hadn't, after all.  
  
No such luck. Cordelia's eyes narrowed. "Willow says you ganged up with Warren and Tucker Wells' little brother and started making a nuisance of yourselves. What are you doing here?"  
  
"Originally? Running away from Warren. Today? Mostly, getting dragged into a bunch of Wesley's business. Can I beg a room from you guys tonight?" He blinked at her, trying for the wide-eyed, poor-me, I-have-seen-the-error-of-my-ways expression.  
  
Cordelia's face was still set in disapproving lines, but Wes took the opportunity to speak up. "Leave him be. I wouldn't be here without his assistance."  
  
The was a sound of shifting feet in the background -- Angel, presumably, who knew some of what Wes meant, and was personally responsible for it.  
  
How did debts like theirs balance out, Jonathan wondered? Wes kidnaps Angel's son and gets his throat slit and the baby taken from him. Angel temporarily causes Wes' death, by accident. Wes turns out to *be* said kidnapped son ... although Wes didn't even seem certain of that yet. The whole thing was just too bizarre. By comparison, *his* long-lost-father situation looked entirely normal.  
  
Cordelia shook her head. "Whatever." She turned back to the bandaging again, but she kept darting wary glances at Jonathan out of the corner of her eye.  
  
More shuffling of feet. A soft whisper, presumably Fred, then Gunn's voice, louder. "You guys eaten dinner yet? We're making a taco run."  
  
Jonathan hadn't even *thought* about food all day. There had been too much going on. But now ... his stomach rumbled loudly, reminding him. "I didn't eat today at all," he answered, then glanced over at Wesley's pale profile. "I doubt Wes did, either."  
  
"Okay." Gunn studied him a moment, then nodded. "We'll bring some back. Just don't start talking without us."  
  
They left. Personally, Jonathan thought these people were all showing an amazing amount of patience. Didn't they want to know what had happened with the Watchers, and where Wes had been? Or had someone actually noticed the state Wes was in, and decided that fixing him up was more important than the questions?  
  
Didn't really matter. It was all very interesting to watch. Besides, the more Jonathan learned about this group, the better. If he wasn't going back to Sunnydale anytime soon, maybe he could make himself useful to these people.  
  
Wes had treated him with a fair amount of respect, so far, which was more than he'd ever really gotten from Buffy's crew. The Scoobies had never been intentionally mean, and sometimes helped him, but they'd never gone out of their way to be friends. Mostly, that was why Jonathan had ended up with Warren and Andrew ... looking for respect and friendship, with cool toys thrown in. Maybe he could have that here.  
  
It didn't take long for Cordelia to finish cleaning Wesley up, or for Gunn and Fred to return, thankfully. There were a few long moments filled only with the sound of crunching tacos, and then the expected circle of inquiry formed around Wes at last.  
  
Unfortunately, by that time Wes had drifted off into oblivion, asleep in his chair with a half-eaten taco still clutched in one hand and a little piece of lettuce stuck to his chin. He looked a lot younger like that, and more vulnerable.  
  
"Better let him sleep," Jonathan said, before anyone could get the bright idea to wake Wes up and ask him questions. "The Watchers were pretty clueless, anyway, and there wasn't anything in the box except a little piece of rock. He told them to come back tomorrow when Mr. Giles gets here, so you'll hear it all then anyway."  
  
"Giles is coming?" That perked Cordelia up. "Giles is good at fixing things."  
  
"Giles agreed to let Wes take Connor to England," Angel reminded her, not as pleased. "But Jonathan's right. We're not going to get anything else out of Wes tonight. Gunn? We can put him in my bedroom, I don't want to carry him up the stairs."  
  
"Right."  
  
Angel paused as they lifted Wes from his chair, and gave Jonathan a sudden, dark look. "There's a spare room on the third floor. Lorne will show you. We'll have more questions for you tomorrow, too."  
  
"Sure, man. Whatever." Not a pleasant thought. Jonathan hadn't mentioned the whole Ethan Rayne thing yet, and it was sure to come out when the questions started flying. Not to mention the details of what he'd been doing in Sunnydale.  
  
Wes hadn't seemed to care. Would the others? No telling. Still, if he was going to stay on the good side of the line, better to face the music now than wait.  
  
"Good choice, kid."  
  
Jonathan looked at the green guy in surprise. "What?"  
  
Lorne just shook his head. "We'll talk tomorrow. Come on. I'll show you to your room."  
  
TBC 


	20. Reassessment

A/N: First of all, I just want to thank everyone for the reviews! They're really keeping me going. Oh, and remember how I said several chapters ago that I was almost done? Oops. The boys don't want to let go of me yet. =)  
  
----------------------------------------  
  
Chapter Twenty  
  
In the past thirty-six hours, Wesley had awakened four times. The first time had been in the hospital, at a baby's cry; next in a low-end hotel room, to the sound of a phone; then on the cold concrete, outside a bar; and now, in the Hyperion, in Angel's bedroom.   
  
The first three times, there had been pain, and disorientation, and depression. This time, however, something was different. Oh, the pain was still there. Nothing but time would solve that problem. But for the emotions ... he still didn't really know how to define what he was feeling.  
  
Wesley sighed, and opened his eyes to study the ceiling. His relationship with Angel had always been complex, and deeper than it should have been. Watchers kill vampires, but this watcher had sacrificed his career to help that vampire, not long after they had first met. Many Watchers, perhaps even most, would not have done as he had, no matter how extenuating the circumstances. He still remembered Weatherby's words, much later, when the retrieval team had come after Faith: "Do the sacred oaths you swore as a Watcher mean nothing to you now?"  
  
That had been within months of Wes' arrival in Los Angeles. Even earlier that that, he'd been willing to commit greivous bodily harm on Angel's behalf. What was it he'd said to the man he'd pinned with the crossbow dart? "You should understand, the man I work for means a great deal to me. And I will not give you a single red cent. What I will do, Sir, is beat it out of you if I have to."  
  
So much had happened in the next two years. During the time when Angel had fired them all and they'd continued the agency's work without him, Wes had told Angel that Cordy was the hardest hit by his betrayal, and perhaps even believed it. And yet, after the incident with the new clothes, who had been the one still feeling cheated and upset? Wesley.  
  
There was the day he'd sent Angel to battle Groo, uncertain if Angel would be able to come back intact from another encounter with his internal Beast. The day he'd forced Angel to wear the pink motorcycle helmet; that one still brought up a smile every time he thought about it. The day Angel rescued him from the ruins of their first office. The day Gunn's old crew invited Caritas, and tried to get Gunn to stake Angel; Wes had bonded strongly with Gunn during Angel's dark period, but that day, Wes had realised that if forced to choose, he would have to choose Angel.  
  
It was fascinating, thumbing through all these old memories from a new perspective. Interesting to imagine that he might always have known, somewhere deep down, that their destinies were connected. Strange to think about how different life might have been, had he grown up here, with Angel, in Los Angeles.  
  
Of course, he couldn't have. The mind boggled, trying to imagine what would have changed had he *not* been sent back three decades and left on English soil. Although, it still made no sense that he'd seen Holtz at the Travers' gate, while the Wyndham-Prices lived nowhere nearby. That was a link that still needed further investigation.  
  
A muffled ringing sound interrupted Wes' thought processes, and he abruptly remembered Rupert's words yesterday about leaving his mobile on. He'd done so, and tucked it into the pocket of his leather coat, which he had been wearing last night. Since he'd fallen asleep in the lobby, that meant the others had carried him in here as-is, so his coat must still be somewhere in the room.  
  
Wes sat up quickly, and almost immediately regretted it. Not from the neck wound; it was not as bad as it had been the day before. Leather pants tended to chafe one's ... legs, and he had been wearing them for too many hours.  
  
Gingerly, Wes slid off the bed, and located the chair the coat was suspended from. After a few moments, he managed to find the cellular phone, and put it to his ear. "Rupert?"  
  
"Yes. I've arrived in Los Angeles. Where shall I direct the taxi?"  
  
"Ah ... actually, Rupert, a great deal has happened since we spoke yesterday afternoon. I'm back at the Hyperion."  
  
"The Hyperion?" Giles sounded rather puzzled. "Is this a positive development?"  
  
Wes sighed. "Hard to tell, as yet. Ethan's been involved, and Travers, and someone you may remember from Sunnydale, a young man named Jonathan."  
  
"Wesley ..."  
  
"I doubt I can explain things more than once, Rupert, and I've put everyone off until noon today. Get here as soon as you can."  
  
"Right. I'll be there directly."  
  
The conversation ended, and Wes turned the mobile off again with a frown. He was in need a trip to the restroom, at the least, if not a shower, before facing anyone.   
  
Luckily, it appeared that someone had remembered his suitcases; they were in a corner by the door. It might be time to face the music, but at least he could do so wearing more comfortable clothing.  
  
TBC 


	21. Regrouping Over Coffee

Chapter Twenty-One  
  
Jonathan crept quietly down the stairs a little after ten o'clock Friday morning. He still had Wes' keys from the day before, and he was thinking about borrowing the motorcycle for a quick breakfast run. He'd been hoping that he could get out the door without having to field any awkward questions, but it didn't look like that was going to happen. He could already hear voices drifting up from the lobby.  
  
"Jonathan?" Apparently, there was someone following him down the stairwell, too.  
  
Jonathan turned to look. Great. It was the cryptic demon-guy again. "Hey. Lorne, right?"  
  
"Yeah. Look, Jonathan, I just wanted you to know that you're doing the right thing. It's not always easy or attractive, but trust me, it's a lot more fulfilling in the end."  
  
Jonathan blinked at him. What was this guy, anyway? Beyond the obvious non-human thing? "Are you psychic or something?"  
  
Lorne rolled his eyes a little. "Or something. I read people's auras. Usually when they're singing, but you were lit up like a lighthouse last night. Hard not to take a peek, you know?"  
  
Jonathan couldn't quite hold back an involuntary shudder. He'd never liked the idea of having other people in his head. "Well thanks for the encouragement but, could you not do that anymore? It's wigging me out."  
  
Lorne smiled. "I see what I see, kid. And I see you, in front of a microphone, really soon."  
  
Jonathan shuddered again, and started walking down the stairs again. "Thanks, but I think I'll take a rain-check on that."  
  
Lorne laughed, and followed him down the stairwell.  
  
When they reached the lobby, it looked like breakfast was already in progress. Cordelia, Gunn, and Fred were busy with doughnuts and coffee, and there were more of each set out on the counter.  
  
Fred saw them first. "Hey, guys! Good morning. There's plenty of food, help yourselves. We're just waiting for Wes to wake up. We closed the agency for the week, so there's not much else to do."  
  
"Thanks," Jonathan said, and took one of the paper cups and a maple bar. "It's nice of you guys to feed me."  
  
"Don't get used to it." Cordelia frowned at him. "I still don't trust you. How did you run into Wes, anyway?"  
  
Well, here goes. "I left Sunnydale Wednesday night. Warren was starting to creep me out, he doesn't care anymore who gets hurt or killed in his little plans. So I packed up some stuff and caught a cab to L.A. I was going to just hang out and hide, but this guy, Ethan Rayne, tracked me to my hotel."  
  
"Ethan Rayne?" Cordelia interrupted him. "The creep who messed with the band candy? Not only did I have to see my mom in lycra, Snyder made us clean up graffiti at the high school."  
  
"Whoa, that sounds like the old Cordelia," Angel said. He walked into the lobby, smiling wryly, and took another of the cups of coffee.  
  
"It's Jonathan's fault," she said irritably. "I'm already all worked up, and here he is, reeking of Sunnydale."  
  
"Hey," Jonathan objected. "I don't reek. But yeah, that's the Ethan Rayne I meant."  
  
"What did he want with you?" Gunn asked, curiously. "Wes talked about him once. The guy sounds like a bad-ass."  
  
Jonathan sighed. "Well, yeah. The thing is, I'm adopted, right? I've been Jonathan Levinson all my life. Then this guy Ethan appears, and says he's my real dad."  
  
"Your dad?" Angel asked, sounding alarmed. "You said he was behind the Holtz thing, but you never said ..."  
  
"Let me finish, okay?" It was Jonathan's turn to interrupt. He didn't want anyone drawing unpleasant conclusions before he was done. "Ethan wanted me to go with him and do the father-son chaos thing. I said thanks, but no thanks. He left. End of story. Except that he was messing with Wes too, and I decided to help Wes get back wherever he needed to go. That's how I ended up here."  
  
"You're sure that's the whole story?" Angel asked. "You're not here to spy on us for Ethan?"  
  
Jonathan snorted. "I get the impression he could find out anything he wanted to know without any help, especially help from me. I have some magic skills, but not much else, and nothing on his scale."  
  
"I believe him, Angelcakes," Lorne spoke up. "He's clean."  
  
"Well. So where are you going next?" Fred asked, piping up. "Any big plans for the weekend? Or just more hiding out from those friends of yours? We could help with that, probably, if you hired us. Except that we're busy with other stuff right now."  
  
"Um, actually ... I was hoping I could stick around. You know, find out what happens. If you don't mind. I have some things I'd like to ask Wes and Mr. Giles, too, about Ethan. In case he comes back."   
  
Jonathan scuffed the toe of his shoe on the tiled floor, hoping they wouldn't object. He'd made up the Ethan excuse off the top of his head. Really, he just wanted to see the end of this thing. He'd heard only about half the story in bits and pieces, like a swiss-cheesed soap opera, and he was fascinated. This was serious stuff, the kind of thing Watchers would write in their secret history books, he thought. Vampires with kids, time-travelling, psychic demons, who knew what else. And he'd been useful a couple of times already. Maybe he could find something else to do.  
  
The group studied him for a few minutes, then looked at each other. "Okay," Angel said, at last. "Just don't do anything you might regret, because we'll make sure you do."  
  
"Got it." Jonathan said.  
  
That settled, he started making a big deal with the eating, so he wouldn't have to answer any more questions. He was just finishing the last of his coffee and listening to the others' small talk when the front doors opened again, and another familiar face walked in.  
  
"Ah. Hello. I understand Wesley is here?"  
  
"Giles!" Cordelia set down her coffee cup and gave the older British man a hug. "It's good to see you. Yes, he's here. We're just waiting for him to show his face again."  
  
"I talked to him not half-an-hour ago. I'm sure it won't be long." Giles smiled at Cordy, then pulled back to greet the others.  
  
TBC 


	22. An Angel's Wing

A/N: A bit of rehashing in this one -- Wes explaining things. Hopefully in an interesting way. =)  
  
-----------------------------------  
  
Chapter Twenty-Two  
  
Wesley was standing in the shadows at one end of the lobby, just out of sight of the others, when Rupert entered the hotel. He'd been standing there for several minutes, listening to the others talk, wondering how much chance he had of getting Rupert alone when the older man arrived. There were questions he wanted to ask about his family, without the others listening in.  
  
Wes sighed, listening to Cordelia's pleased greeting. If he was going to be honest with himself, he'd have to admit that he was mostly just looking to put off talking to Angel at all, by any means. He didn't need Rupert's help to be certain of anything. He hadn't actually doubted the answers to the Connor question since he'd seen the pebble in the box the night before, and realized what it meant.  
  
No, the emotion paralyzing him now wasn't uncertainty, but fear. Fear of what he'd see when he looked into Angel's eyes and told the vampire what had become of his child. Fear of the look his other father, his human father, used to wear whenever Wes had done something displeasing. That expression that said, you're not what I want in a son.  
  
Well, now Wes had some idea of why Mr. Wyndham-Price had always felt that way. Wes *wasn't* his son. Easy for the man playing father to imagine how *his* flesh and blood would have done better. But Angel ... if Wes saw that look in Angel's eyes today ...  
  
Better to die now, to spontaneously combust and leave the others wondering always, than to experience that kind of rejection from Angel.  
  
Wes shook his head, trying to quiet the turmoil in his heart and recapture the clear, emptied feeling from the night before. He could do this. He could face the others, ask his questions, give them answers, without dissolving into a nervous wretch. He could talk to Angel without revealing the fear that burned in his veins. He had survived so much already. Why was the thought of surviving this day so hard to imagine? He was stronger than this. "Buck up, Wes, and take it like a man."  
  
Giles was greeting Jonathan now; Wes could hear him asking sharp-edged questions of the younger man. He had a feeling those two would be talking a great deal later on about the situation in Sunnydale. Best to step in now, before that discussion got underway; best not to be still hiding in the shadows when the other Watchers returned. Wes took a deep breath, and stepped towards the group before inertia could claim him again.  
  
"Rupert. Thank you for coming, I really appreciate it." Calm greeting, just enough smile to reassure.  
  
"Of course. Anything I can do to help." Wes found it hard to believe he'd ever felt justified in condescending to the strength and gruff caring that was Rupert Giles.  
  
A flutter of looks and questions half-begun, from the others; Wes waved them all away. "Before I say anything else, I want you all to know, I believe Connor to be safe. A great deal older, but safe, and right here in Los Angeles."  
  
"Older?" Fred's voice, curious.  
  
"Safe? Here?" Angel's voice, relieved and somewhat hopeful.  
  
"Yes," Wes said. He found a place to sit again, and looked up, meeting Angel's gaze for a brief moment. "And I'm fairly certain that we do not need to worry about the prophecy any longer."  
  
"Another faulty translation?" Angel's voice was sharp, but a little of the tension went out of his stance as he spoke.  
  
"Ah, actually, no," Wes said. "But that's near the end of the story."  
  
"Well, begin at the beginning, then." Giles moved to the counter and set his suitcases down, then took a cup of coffee and found a seat.  
  
"I saw them jump into the portal," Angel spoke again, his tone rough with remembered despair. "Into Quortoth, the darkest of dimensions."  
  
Wes nodded. "Yes. Fortunately, I had anticipated some trouble on the journey, though not as much as I encountered. There was a short-term protection spell on Connor when Holtz made the jump, and they weren't in Quortoth long enough for it to expire. Sahjhan transported them to England, several decades in the past."  
  
"How do you know that?" Angel wanted to know. "And why send Holtz and Connor to the past? Sahjhan said he wanted Connor dead."  
  
Wes glanced over at Jonathan. "I ran into Ethan Rayne in a bar yesterday. He had a great deal to say to Jonathan, but he also had some information for me. He claimed it was his good deed of the year."  
  
"How do you know he wasn't lying to you?" Cordelia interjected.  
  
Giles stirred then, shifting in his seat and giving Cordelia a sharp look. "I have some history with Ethan, as some of you know, and I think we can trust that he told the truth in this matter. He has a history of supplying accurate information, although it is often accompanied by a rather nasty trick."  
  
Wes nodded at him. "The Fyarl incident. Yes. He mentioned that."  
  
"Exactly," Giles said. "He had information on the Initiative's secret project, the one that produced Adam."  
  
Everyone seemed at least partially satisfied with that reasoning, so Wes continued. "In this case, he had lifted some memories from Holtz and stored them in a projection mirror. I'm not sure where he encountered the man, or what prompted Ethan to do this, but I wasn't particularly concerned with the details. We are, after all, in the midst of a confluence of events. Unlikely things are bound to occur."  
  
"So you saw them actually in England. Where? Why?" Angel fidgeted, impatient.  
  
"I was able to hear part of their conversation," Wes said. "Sahjhan decided to let Connor be raised by a group of people that would hate Angel, regardless of circumstances. The prophecies would ensure that father and son met this week in a fatal encounter, and he believed this would be more easily accomplished, and more painful to Angel, if Connor were already grown."  
  
"Watchers," Gunn said, sounding faintly disgusted. "You telling me Connor's a Watcher? Is that why you were all upset about this Quentin Travers guy yesterday?"  
  
"Oh, dear Lord," Giles said. "If it's Quentin, I suggest you never tell him."  
  
A faint smile lifted the corners of Wes' mouth. "No, he isn't, although at first I feared he might be. Connor was left at the Travers' front gate, then Sahjhan took Holtz through the portal again, presumably back to L.A."  
  
"Just like that?" Fred said, aghast. "What if something happened to him? What if it rained, or if robbers came along, or something?"  
  
"I'm not sure," Wes answered. "In fact, I have no information on what happened to Connor over the next few years. I was hoping Rupert might be able to fill in some of the gaps."  
  
Giles shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't," he said. "This is the first I've heard of an unknown infant appearing on the Travers' doorstep."  
  
"But you said you know where Connor is now, right?" Angel asked, starting to pace across the lobby floor.  
  
"Yes," Wesley said. "I believe I do. Something happened last night ... well." Deep breath. "I was rather hoping to discover how he got there, but ..."  
  
"Where is he, Wes? Just tell me where my son is!" Protective anger, parental love.  
  
Wes took another deep breath, trying to quiet his nerves. "I ... I didn't see Connor as much as the rest of you. Did he ... was there any distinct birthmark you would recognise him by?" Just to make things certain.  
  
"He had this little mark on his lower back," Fred said, softly. "Strawberry colored. Like an angel's wing, I thought."  
  
Wes nodded. Moment of truth. Slowly, he stood up, then turned around and rolled up the hem of his shirt.  
  
TBC 


	23. Ripped Free

A/N: Did you really think I'd be that cruel? I'm having trouble enough writing all these emotional bits, I think I would have self-destructed if I tried to pull a fast one with that particular plotline. =)  
  
---------------------------------------------------  
  
Chapter Twenty-Three  
  
"Uh, hey, Mr. Giles." Jonathan shuffled his feet a little nervously. The others were fairly convinced now that he wasn't evil, but it wasn't their Slayer he'd been bothering.  
  
Giles frowned. "Jonathan. Wesley mentioned that you were here. I trust this means you have left off your plans to rule Sunnydale?"  
  
Jonathan winced. Sarcasm. Well, it was better than being yelled at, or blasted into a crisp on sight. "Pretty much. It wasn't as much fun as I thought it would be."  
  
"Evil seldom is," Giles replied. "Anya said you were making a project out of terrorizing Buffy?"  
  
What kind of a question was that? No, he knew what kind of a question that was. What kind of an answer was he supposed to give? Say 'yes', and get the third degree for the badness. Say 'no', and get the third degree for lying. "Um, well, ah, kind of. But Warren was the one trying to hurt her. I was just ..." Jonathan sighed. "I didn't know what I was getting into, I guess. I like Buffy."  
  
Giles opened his mouth to say something else, then shut it again as his focus shifted somewhere behind Jonathan. There were more footsteps on the lobby floor; sounded like Wes was up and mobile again.  
  
"Rupert. Thank you for coming, I really appreciate it." Wes sounded calm, but his posture was tense.  
  
Giles nodded. "Of course. Anything I can do to help."  
  
Then Wes launched into his explanations. "Before I say anything else, I want you all to know, I believe Connor to be safe. A great deal older, but safe, and right here in Los Angeles."  
  
The rest of the story came out in fits and starts, interrupted periodically by Angel and Wes' other friends. Jonathan just sat back and listened. The parts about Ethan were interesting; he wasn't so evil, then. Good. The parts about Connor ... Jonathan had the advantage of already knowing the end of the story, but listening to Wes talk about himself in the third person was a little strange.   
  
Jonathan couldn't believe no one else had figured it out yet. Except, of course, that Angel was the only one besides him that knew about the dead-Wesley incident. That really was pretty key. And Angel was probably excused by virtue of parental out-of-mindedness.   
  
"Where is he, Wes?" The vampire was pacing the floor, tense and upset. "Just tell me where my son is!"   
  
Wes took a deep breath. He was starting to look pretty shaky. "I ... I didn't see Connor as much as the rest of you. Did he ... was there any distinct birthmark you would recognise him by?"  
  
Jonathan nodded. Make them actually figure it out, instead of telling them. Less possibility of denial that way.  
  
The lobby fell utterly silent as Wesley's back was exposed to their view. There, nestled in a network of fine white scars, was a little red feathery shape -- an angel's wing, Fred had called it. Proof.  
  
"God, Wes ..." Gunn sounded a bit pole-axed.  
  
"Wesley?" Fred, wavering a little in confusion.  
  
"Oh, dear Lord ..." Giles, reverting to standard, promptly began cleaning his glasses.  
  
"How did I miss that?" Lorne was staring at Wes as though he'd never seen the man before.  
  
"Oh, thank God. For a minute there I thought it was going to turn out to be Groo."  
  
Huh? Jonathan turned to stare at Cordelia. Who the hell was Groo?  
  
"What?" she exclaimed. It wasn't just Jonathan giving her a confused look; Lorne, Fred, and Gunn were also staring at her as though she'd grown another head. She just shrugged, smiling a little. "I mean, he *does* look a lot like Angel."  
  
Gunn snorted, recovering. "Oh, so you *did* notice that. I wondered. Where is he, anyway?"  
  
"Guys!" Jonathan hissed. They were totally disturbing the mood. That might have been what Cordelia intended, but Jonathan didn't think it was what Wesley needed to hear.  
  
Wes hadn't moved. He was still standing there tensely, with his shirt rolled up, staring at the far wall.  
  
Angel hadn't moved either, or even said anything yet. The group quieted back down, looking at him; the vampire looked as though he'd turned to stone, wide-eyed, caught between hope and disbelief.  
  
The silence stretched another moment, then Angel took a reflexive breath. "Connor ...?" His voice was so quiet, it was almost a whisper.  
  
Wes flinched, dropping the hem of his shirt, then slowly turned back around. "Yes," he said. Those were haunted eyes; it was almost painful to look at him.  
  
"*Wesley*." The name ripped free of Angel's lips as though half his soul had gone with it. Then he moved, as fast as only a vampire can, and wrapped his errant son up in his arms.  
  
Not a very manly thing, usually, these powerful expressions of emotion. For some reason, though, the word 'sissy' didn't even surface in Jonathan's thoughts as he watched them. Even after Wes went limp and started shedding tears on Angel's shoulder.  
  
"That's so sweet," Fred whispered, clutching at one of Gunn's hands.  
  
They might all have stood there forever, agreeing with her, but they wre interrupted by a sudden sound at the front of the building. Jonathan blinked, suddenly back to reality, and glanced towards the front doors. "Um, guys? I think the Watchers are back. And there's four of them this time."  
  
"Four of them? I'd swear no one left before I did. They must have taken the bloody Concorde." Giles scowled as his four fellow Council members began to enter the hotel, then sucked in a sharp breath. "Bugger. It's Charles Wyndham-Price."  
  
TBC 


	24. Good Intentions

A/N: There's evil, and then there's evil. Mr. Wyndham-Price insisted on wriggling out of the bounds I wanted to put on him; it took me all day to pin him down, but I think in the end, this will work better than what I originally had in mind. =)  
  
-------------------------------------------------------  
  
Chapter Twenty-Four  
  
Wesley hadn't been sure what to expect when he showed the others the birthmark, although his friends' reactions weren't exactly a surprise. Shock, disbelief, and even a little humor; at least none of them sounded angry or upset. But none of the voices were the one he was waiting to hear.  
  
It mattered, of course, what his friends thought of all this; but in the end, it would not fundamentally change his relationship with any of them. A shift from that sort of relationship to father/son, however ...  
  
"Connor ...?" Angel finally spoke, barely loud enough for Wes to hear him.  
  
What did that mean? Was it a sign of acceptance, or rejection? Wes dropped the hem of his shirt, then slowly turned back around. He needed to see Angel's face. He needed to know.  
  
"Yes," he answered.  
  
"*Wesley*."   
  
Nothing as simple as acceptance in that strained voice. Wes barely had time to wonder what it meant before Angel suddenly moved, and cool arms clasped Wes tightly against a solid chest.  
  
Possessive. Fierce. A corner of Wes' brain that wasn't swamped with emotion remarked that it was probably as much vampiric Sire instinct as it was actual fatherly caring, but the rest of him just stood there and soaked it up. Everything was going to be all right now. It no longer mattered what they thought of him in England. He belonged *here*.  
  
Wesley would have been content to continue standing like that, enjoying his first positive parental embrace in the last thirty years, but the sound of the front doors opening broke through his comforting mental fog.  
  
"Four of them?" he heard Rupert say. "I'd swear no one left before I did. They must have taken the bloody Concorde." There was a pause, and then, "Bugger. It's Charles Wyndham-Price."  
  
Wes stiffened. There could be only one reason for the man to be here. Travers must have summoned him in an effort to exercise some measure of control over Wesley, since yesterday's attempts had obviously failed.  
  
Angel cautiously unfolded his arms, stepping back far enough so that he could look into Wes' face. "He was your father?" he said quietly, with an intense, concerned expression.  
  
Wes shook his head. "Not anymore."  
  
That got a smile out of Angel, a quick flash of teeth and a suspicious mistiness at the corners of the vampire's eyes.  
  
"Are we interrupting something?" Quentin Travers said coolly, breaking the mood.  
  
The four Watchers had ranged themselves just inside the lobby doors. The others had started to gather closer to Angel and Wes in response, as if circling the wagons. Giles and Gunn were standing nearest the front, with the others ranged behind them, all in defensive postures.  
  
"We're here to speak with my son." Charles Wyndham-Price was dressed impeccably as always, not a thread out of place. He wore that familiar expression of aloof disdain, with a slightly disapproving curl to his upper lip. Despite everything that had changed, Wes still felt a twinge of nervousness at that look.  
  
"You don't have a son," Angel announced, with a hint of growl in the back of his throat.  
  
Wesley's erstwhile father raised his eyebrows at that. "Ah, but I do," he said, "and I believe I see him standing there right next to you. We have some questions for him about information he has been withholding from the Council."  
  
"He owes the Council nothing," Giles said, as belligerent as Angel, in a quieter, more British way. "You fired him, or have you forgotten?"  
  
"Ah, hello, Rupert. We fired you once too, as I recall. Sometimes I wonder why you are still on the payroll. You cannot be doing your Slayer much good from your flat in Bath." Such a reasonable voice. Calm. Insinuatingly superior.  
  
Wesley shook his head. If he didn't intervene, they would probably waste hours in pointless male posturing. "Travers, I did ask you to come back today, to answer your questions. And I will. There's no need to be unpleasant. The short version is that you do not need to worry about the prophecies you mentioned any longer."  
  
"What?" Travers blinked at him, incredulous.  
  
Wes continued. "However, the tale more properly begins with a portal, and a child left on your parents' doorstep thirty years ago."  
  
"I see." The elder Wyndham-Price sighed heavily, interrupting his story. "I had suspected something of the sort. And you say the prophecies have been, or are being, averted?"  
  
Well. That was an unexpected reaction. "I believe so," Wes said, carefully. "In the sense that Buffy was prophesied to die at the Master's hands, and still prevented the Hellmouth from opening."  
  
The older man shook his head in reaction, and smiled a little. "I saw it happen, you know; I was on my way to visit with Quentin's father. I knew from the beginning that no child who came to this world as you did would have a normal destiny. However, it always seemed that no matter how thoroughly I tried to prepare you for what might come, you never quite measured up. I'm pleased to find that you have managed to break that nasty habit."  
  
What? How was Wesley supposed to react to that? Was his father -- former father -- really saying what it sounded like he was saying? Wes stared, horrified, unable to frame an appropriate reaction.  
  
Luckily, Charles Wyndham-Price did not seem to be waiting for one. "Come then, Quentin. You've dragged me all the way to America for nothing; we had best get moving, if we are going to find some other way to justify this trip to the Council."  
  
TBC 


	25. Is That All?

Chapter Twenty-Five  
  
It was over, as quick as that. Jonathan blinked in confusion as Charles Wyndham-Price turned and walked back through the hotel doors, followed by an angry Quentin Travers, who seemed at least as clueless as everyone else.   
  
"Oh do shut up, Quentin," the elder Watcher was saying as they exited the hotel, "I'm sure Rupert will be happy to justify his salary by writing up a report on the situation. What reason is there for us to waste *our* time hanging about?"  
  
The nameless younger Watchers shrugged, and joined their elders. Within moments, the lobby belonged solely to Angel Investigations and company again.  
  
"That's it?" Cordelia exclaimed in disgust, breaking the stunned silence.  
  
"It ... would appear to be so," Wesley answered her. He sounded like he had swallowed something very unpleasant.  
  
Jonathan shook his head. "I don't understand. You pretty much told him you died, and he didn't get upset at all. I mean, bad father vibes, I get that, but still ..." He trailed off, unable to put into words the disquiet he was feeling.  
  
"Wait a minute, Wes died? When?" Gunn wanted to know.  
  
Wes shook his head. "It's a long story," he said, "and not important right now."  
  
"And what was all that stuff about preparing you, Wes?" Fred asked. "He couldn't have known about the prophecies, you were the first one to translate most of them, right?"  
  
Wes sighed. "He ... I thought, when I realised the truth, that it could have been ... it must have been the fact that I wasn't his own flesh and blood. That he had always measured me against what his own son could have done. But this ..."   
  
Wesley paused again, locating a chair, and then sat down heavily. "I think ... I think he never even saw me as a person. I was a project to him. A puzzle, dropped through a portal at his feet."  
  
"But you were just a baby!" Cordelia objected.  
  
"And Slayers are just little girls," Wesley said, sharing a look with Giles. "It's a logical outgrowth of the Watcher mentality."  
  
"Wes ..." Angel moved closer to Wesley, and gripped one of his son's shoulders.  
  
Wesley shook his head. "I ... I think I need some time alone," he said. "I know there is much still to be said, and the fact that I turned out to be kidnapping myself does not really excuse my actions over the last few weeks ..."  
  
"Wes ..." Gunn began to object.  
  
"No." Wes stood up, and looked around the group, matching gazes with each of them. "I need to think. There's still Sahjhan to worry about, and prophecies to retranslate, and ... it's all too much." He sighed again, and for a moment, he looked older than anyone else in the room.  
  
"That's understandable." Giles studied him for a moment, then glanced over at Jonathan. "If you don't need me any further today, I think I shall make a quick journey to Sunnydale and discover what this young miscreant's friends have been up to. Then I'll return to help with the translations."  
  
"I'd appreciate that, Rupert," Wes said, smiling faintly.  
  
Giles nodded, then picked up his suitcases from their resting place by the counter and exited the hotel. He paused only to fix Jonathan with a sharp look, and a quick word of advice. "If you truly intend to improve yourself, I suggest you stay here and learn from these people. If you ever set foot in Sunnydale again, however ..."  
  
Jonathan agreed quickly. Only a fool, or an army, would mess with Giles when he had that expression on his face. "I have no problem with that."  
  
He'd been sort of leaning that way, anyhow. What was there left for him in Sunnydale? Except for the Scoobies and his former partners, his only ties there were his adoptive parents, and phones existed for a reason. He'd always be one of the "lesser men" in that town, the ones who couldn't win, but here, there was a chance to start over. He'd be stupid to throw that chance away.  
  
The doors shut behind Giles.   
  
And then there were seven.  
  
Wes seemed to sense that the others all had questions to ask and things of their own to say to him, regardless of his request for thinking time; he snatched his keys from where Jonathan had laid them on the counter and was gone with only a quick "Tomorrow" as explanation.  
  
And then there were six.  
  
Gunn and Fred shared a thoughtful look, holding tightly to each other's hands, then excused themselves. "I'll leave my cell phone on, in case of visions," Gunn told Cordelia as they left. "We'll be around."  
  
And then there were four.  
  
"Angel ..." Cordelia said tentatively, laying a hand on the vampire's arm.  
  
He shrugged it off, almost impatiently. "Go home, Cordy. I'm sure Groo is waiting. We'll talk tomorrow, okay? When Wes is back."  
  
Cordelia gave him a troubled look, then picked up her purse and traced the same path the others had taken across the tiled floor and through the double glass doors. For once, she did not bother with a snappy comeback.  
  
And then there were three.  
  
Lorne snorted. "You want to follow him, don't you? Make sure he doesn't suddenly disappear before tomorrow?"  
  
Angel blinked, startled. "It's daylight out, Lorne. And I'm sure he'll be fine."  
  
"Oh go on. I'm sure if you think about it, you can figure out where he's going, and there's sewer access almost everywhere in this town."  
  
"You sound like you're trying to get rid of me."  
  
Lorne smiled. "Sugar, not to be rude, but if you're planning on being Mr. Broody for the rest of the day, anyone would want to get rid of you."  
  
"You have a point there." Angel smiled back, briefly, then headed for the basement.  
  
And then there were two.  
  
"So tell me, Lorne," Jonathan said, casually. "Are things always this interesting around here?"  
  
Lorne laughed. "You have no idea, kid. You have no idea."  
  
THE END 


	26. Endnotes

~Ending Notes~  
  
*Phew*. There. It's finished.  
  
This fic really kicked my ass in places, but I enjoyed doing it. I have a few more ideas that would take off from the AU I created here, and some unrelated ones, but I think I'll take a breather first. Writing half a novel in 2 weeks has put something of a strain on my real life. =)  
  
... I suppose this is where I admit that this was my first attempt at a serial fic, and my first fanfic of any kind. Not to mention my first fic with two distinct POV's. With all that experimentation, I'm surprised it turned out as well as it did; but I know it could have been better!  
  
So, if any of you would care to do a critique for me, let me know what I did well and what could use work, I'd really, really, really appreciate it. Just send it to my email at jedi_buttercup@yahoo.com with the story name ("Lesser Men") in the subject line.  
  
Thanks for reading this far, and for giving me so many wonderful reviews! FF.net is awesome!  
  
-- Jedi Buttercup 


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